Rome
DECEMBER 24, 1906
OUR TOP-FLOOR ROOM, ON VIA MONTE BRIANZO, IS NEAR the Tiber and I can smell the river, a stinky, evil serpent. The room is bare: one bed, a chest of drawers, a tiny table, two slim chairs. The floor’s made of stone and it’s perishing cold underfoot. We share a kitchen. Georgie will only get a few marbles in his Christmas stocking.
Jim has two private students now, on top of the bank, so we see less of him than ever. Even tonight, Christmas Eve, he’s with one of them and my only hope is they don’t lead each other astray with drink, Jim is so easily seduced by grappa. I tidy our few belongings and wrap the small notebook and nibs I got for Jim in a clean hanky, tying it with some old ribbon from a hat. When I have it presentable, I hear his footfall on the stairs, and I conceal the parcel under the pillow. I run to open the door, so happy am I that he’s come home to me.
“Shush,” I say, holding a finger to my lips, “the maneen’s asleep.”
Jim kisses my forehead and we both go and stand over Georgie in the bed and watch the gentle pulse of his chest. Jim reaches into his pocket and takes out a paper bag.
“It’s all I can offer, Nora,” he says, “but I promise you better times, and better presents anon, my lovely goose.”
I take the bag, delight rising up through me. “What is it, Jim?”
“Something small for you and something for Giorgio, too.”
I fish out a tiny parcel of green tissue and and open it, careful to save the paper, and find a ceramic brooch. It has gilded edges and is painted with butterflies, pink roses and a trail of blue flowers. “Roma” is scrolled in navy lettering across the top.
“Oh Jim!” I collapse in tears because I expected nothing and to have something so sweetly pretty charms me. Jim pulls me to him.
“Happy Christmas, Gooseen. The blue flowers match your eyes, see?” He rocks me gently, takes the brooch, and pins it to my blouse.
“It’s the loveliest thing, Jim.”
He goes to the kitchen to brew some chocolate and I take the cantuccini I’ve been saving from the tin and arrange them on the violet-sprigged plate. I look again into the paper bag and there are two sugar mice for Georgie. I quickly wrap them in the green tissue paper and put them into his stocking with the marbles. When Jim comes back with the mugs, his Christmas present is on the table and he smiles to see it. Jim is a great man for celebrations, and though we’ve both mismanaged our money in every way, it feels good to give each other some token, no matter how miserable. He unwraps the notebook and pen nibs and says he’s very happy.
“What did you eat tonight, my love?” Jim asks, dipping his head as if to avoid the poverty of my answer.
“I had rigatoni with oil and a good pinch of salt. Not so bad.” I say. “I gave Georgie the bit of cheese we had; he ate enough pasta for two men.”
“They belch out clouds of appetite boosters from Saint Peter’s to make sure the faithful keep sated and dull, Nora.”
“We certainly seem to be hungrier since we got here.” I sip the warm chocolate and crunch through several cantuccini. “Isn’t this grand, Jim, all the same?”
“Nora, Nora, Nora.” He reaches across the table and clutches my hand. “Your optimistic good humor astounds me. I sit here thinking of all we lack and you see only what we have.”
“Sure, we don’t need much besides ourselves, do we?” I say, indicating him, myself, and Georgie in the bed.
“We really don’t.” He kisses my fingers. “I’ve been concocting a new story, Nora, for Dubliners. It strikes me that none of the stories have alluded yet to the great hospitality of Irish people. I think Grant Richards will like this one, it will soften the rest, maybe. And it might put a gallop on him to publish the book.”
“Will this new story talk about hospitality then?”
“It will. I mean, it’ll still be about paralyzed people, the difficulties they have in understanding one another, but it’s set at a party.”
“A Christmas party, Jim?”
“In a sense, yes. It’s the feast of the Epiphany, the sixth of January.”
“Oíche Nollaig na mBan; Women’s Christmas. My granny Healy was very fond of that day. She always put her feet up and I served her tea.”
“The women in my story don’t rest at all for they are preparing a great celebration for friends, relatives, and neighbors. These are older women, like my great-aunts, but there’s a capable niece who lives with them too. They’re three wise women.” He stops as if picturing the scene and murmurs, “The Three Graces, laying on a feast.”
“A feast? What do they have, Jim, to feed people with?” My stomach jolts in anticipation.
“They are not unwealthy ladies, these hostesses, and they put on a great spread, Nora. They’re generous people who believe in eating well.”
“Oh, tell me, what kind of food they serve, Jim. Do they have a goose?” My spit spills around my mouth at the thought.
“They do. A fine roast goose—not a Barnacle goose, mind. They have a nice, plump Danubian.” He grins. “And a big ham, dotted with crumbs.”
“They’d have a spiced beef, Jim, I think. Can you imagine the smell of it?”
“Yes, oh yes.” Jim goes to the chest and opens the top drawer, where he keeps his paper and pens. He sits again and writes on a clean sheet: goose, ham, spiced beef. “There’s a long table, Nora, filled with plates. And a sideboard, also well stocked. They have those dishes, you know the ones, they look like cabbage leaves, only fancier.”
“I do! They’re green and veined and they have a big stalk at one end.”
“That’s the boys. And on those leaf-shaped dishes the good ladies will pile raisins and almonds; a lovely block of Smyrna figs.”
He writes: leaf dish x 2, figs, almonds et cetera.
I groan. My belly is stuck to my back with the hunger; I put my hands to it. I look to the violet plate, but we have eaten all the cantuccini. There are six more in the tin, but I’m saving them for tomorrow. Jim is looking at me as if waiting for more suggestions.
“The ladies have bowls of custard, Jim, sprinkled with grated nutmeg. Granny Healy loved that, we had it on Sundays.”
He lights two cigarettes to quell our gnawed-up innards, hands one to me, and goes on. “There are boiled sweets and chocolates in bright wrappers; a fruit stand with oranges and fat red apples.”
“Decanters made of crystal, so they catch the light, with port and sherry, both. And a punch bowl, with tiny cups hanging off the side.”
“Bottles of minerals and stout and ale. Whiskey for the older men.” Jim smiles and jots it all down.
“Jellies of every color and jams—apricot and strawberry. A blancmange like a pink and white castle.” I see all the food on the magnificent table as if it were before me. “And they have to have an enormous plum pudding, Jim, one big enough to feed all the guests.”
“A mighty pudding. It sits in a yellow dish on top of the piano—these are musical ladies, Nora—waiting to be doused and lit up at the end of the meal.”
Our knuckles meet in the ashtray where we both stub our cigarettes. I look at Georgie’s stocking and Jim’s eyes follow mine.
“We could share a sugar mouse,” I say, conspiratorially. “The pair of mice might be too much for him.”
“Two whole ones would surely sicken the boy; I should’ve thought of that. Quick, Nora.” He grins.
I hop up and plunge my hand into the stocking. I unroll the two mice from the tissue paper, rewrap one, and take the other to the table. Jim already has the sharp knife. He slits the mouse from nose to rump and we stand looking at it.
“It’s like some horrible experiment,” Jim says.
But we both grab for a half and stuff the maimed, sugary creature into our mouths. We giggle as we relish the sweet melt of it on our tongues and against our teeth. We lick our fingertips like gossoons when all trace of the mouse has long disappeared into our bellies.
“Christ on the cross, I never tasted anything as good,” Jim says, lighting another cigarette.
“Nor I.” I glance at Georgie. “Are we terrible, Jim?”
“We’re not, Nora. Giorgio knows no difference. He’ll be delighted by his stocking anyway.”
I bite my lip. “He will, no doubt. He’s small, he knows little.” I look at Jim, quiet now as he smokes and thinks. I put out my hand to him and he takes it. “We’ll have better Christmases, Jim, I’m sure, plentiful ones. But here we are together, our little family, and isn’t that a blessing in itself?”
He leans across the table and kisses me. “It is, Nora. It surely is.”