Pola
NOVEMBER 1904
WE’RE LOOKING BETTER THAN WE HAVE BEEN, JIM AND I, despite the absent trunk. I can scrub our things at the sink and the blazing sun has them dry in a finger snap. And, the way the water is here, when I wash my hair it glistens like polished copper. Jim’s good pay—£2 a week!—means we have, finally, a bit to spend. I regret not saving a farthing at Finn’s Hotel, over all those months, frivoling it away on frocks, hats and gloves, and bottles of lavender and violet water to smell nice for Jim.
Anyway, he looks smart now and I’m better and brighter myself, despite the dress that is ready to fall off me it’s that worn. I bought a hair tongs and, as long as I don’t burn his scalp or ear, Jim’s happy to let me wave his hair, so that it is en brosse in the way of the other gents around the school. He got a new brown suit—on tick—for teaching in and a loose red tie to wear with it. He’s going to the dentist once a week; his teeth have been cockeyed since he was an infant, he says, and what better place to get them fixed than the Continent? Jim is stouter from large bowls of minced meat and pasta—he thinks he looks “mannish”—and I’m rounder, too, probably from bread and potatoes for they’re all I can stomach most meals.
Jim is extravagant by nature and sees money only as something to be got rid of. To scrimp where I can, I buy a little machine and with it I roll Jim’s cigarettes. I have the occasional one myself when I want the peppery pull of the smoke in my throat. For a few pence, I can make seventy cigarettes, with the good Turkish tobacco we like, and Jim is proud of my economy.
Today, I’m lying on the bed with the shutters closed against the broil of the sun, waiting for Jim to get back from teaching. I’m bored and lonely, and I bash my fist into the pillow with annoyance and toss around a bit. I have a few Italian words, thanks to Clotilde, but I find it impossible to arrange them into good sentences. Last night I told Jim I was lonesome and he said, “No one is alone who has a book in their hand,” and he gave me George Moore’s stories to read. I tried to get through a bit this morning, but it was not a satisfying experience, so I tossed the book away.
I hear Jim coming up the stairs. He starts to sing once he enters the courtyard and every day I follow the song into the hallway and up, up, up until he comes into our room. Today he’s singing the song about the lost key, so I know Jim is in good form. He flings open the door and belts the last line.
“Ancora un litro di quel bon!” He stands and, with a flourish of his arm, props a tiny pair of spectacles onto his nose. “Ecco!” he calls and comes closer for me to inspect his face in the dim light.
“You got eyeglasses, Jim!”
“Pince-nez, Nora. Pinch-nose.” And he takes my nose between his fingers and tweaks it. Then he takes off the glasses and perches them on again, to show me what he means. “Pinch-nose. Pince-nez.”
“They’ll be a great help to you, Jim, and they look very handsome on you too.”
He bows. “I thank you, my lady. And what has occupied you since breakfast, Nora?”
I point to the book on the bed. “That yoke.”
“Do I detect dissatisfaction with the venerable Moore?”
“The man doesn’t know how to finish a story, Jim, so I didn’t read any more than the one.”
Jim snorts. “Moore no more. Not to worry, my dear, we’ll find you a stack of penny dreadfuls.” He picks up the book and reads: “‘She wished to live for something; she wished to accomplish something; what could she do? There was art.’” Jim squints and repeats, “There was art.” He puts down the book. “Nora, this pince-nez may just save my life,” he says.