‘How’s the weather been recently? Lovely day for this time of year!’ Ama suddenly tries.
The customs officer looks at her astonished. Giulio asks what’s up. Then the officer starts circling the car with renewed zeal. ‘Great, absolutely fucking great. Thanks for that, Ava!’ Pado huffs. He’s so irritated he flicks through the ferry brochure to keep calm and mumbles, ‘Stronzo,’ ‘bastard’ at the customs official, loudly. He hates the way they look at him. He loathes their facetious smiles, the simple voice that explains, in basic English, that this is England and nowhere else.
‘Did you see the way he looked at me?’
Ama tries to ignore Pado’s mounting rage as the customs officer gets more and more curious.
‘Keep quiet, darling. This is not the time to get paranoid.’
She’s struggling to maintain a composed face, but Pado is off: ‘He probably thinks I’m some jumped-up “dago” just off the boat, some peasant looking for work! Well I can tell him and all these bastards that I used to teach in their bloody country, at their bloody universities!’
‘For goodness’ sake, control yourself, Gaspare. Shut up! Please!’ Ama begs.
‘I mean, look at this idiot,’ Pado rages.
We can feel Pado’s raven hair twitch with indignation. He’s no foreigner to this place. He has our mother and she has pale untouched beauty chalked all over her face. We smile to soothe him. His jaw is set in fury. His hands are dancing across his lap, boiling with a desire to wipe this moment away. Ama is edgy. The customs officer looks into the car. Pado can’t smile, not at him. Ama smiles too much, much too much.
‘Could you open up the car please, Madam!’
‘Figlio di … Fucking …’ Pado growls.
Ama hoists herself out of the car to try and resolve this on her own. The customs officer leans into the boot. He begins lifting wine bottles out. So far he has counted twice the limit. Then he discovers the jars of lungs. Ama blushes, coughs and sniffs. Pado can’t bear it any longer. He’s out of the car too, waving his certificates. He has had enough. On the back seat we shrink into nothing. Giulio curls into a closed, tight ball. Duccio rearranges his maps into separate country piles, making sure the corners meet. I feel myself sliding down, further under the seat. I clench my teeth and wait, trying to help Pado in my thoughts. Ama goes to stop Pado, but his eyeballs are fixed. She stands in front of him, supportive and pleading. It’s going to be all right. She knows he can do it. He’s got to do it.
He’s doing fine, explaining calmly enough, then he says it – the word he can never pronounce – ‘innocent’. It is innocent like ‘inno+scent’ not ‘inno+chent’, we’ve told him a hundred thousand times.
The officer says, ‘Sorry, what?’
Pado raises his voice, ‘Why bother innochent people?’
The officer takes it badly and they’re off.
‘Please follow me, Sir.’
‘Listen …’
‘Kindly do as I say!’
Another officer comes and joins the first. They lead Pado into a room. Ama gets back into the car, crying. She bangs the door shut so hard that we all freeze. She sits holding her head in her hands, then she gently switches on the tape machine for some music, something to take her away from here, from this. Instead of music, the tape is still stuck on Giulio’s joke. His distant voice coughs and laughs. Ama punches the eject button furiously. The tape flies out onto the floor. She picks it up and hurls it onto the top of the dashboard. Giulio fiddles with the biscuit packet beside me, pushing his face up against the glass so no one can see his eyes. Then I hand Ama a biscuit to calm her. She absently takes a bite and throws it out of the window. A seagull snatches it up and deposits a large white dropping on the car in exchange. Pado returns a while later with a heap of clipped receipts.
‘What the fuck is this shit doing on the car?’ he shouts.
He starts up the car again. Ama leans out and tries scrubbing the bonnet with a tissue. The white stain won’t go. She scrapes at it with a piece of paper. It rubs onto her hand. We drive off into England, Pado yelling about customs officers and seagulls that shit everywhere. Duccio leans against the head rest in front of him. I can see he is watching Ama clench her dirty finger, two layers of antiseptic wipes wrapped tight around it.
From Portsmouth to London and then on to Machance’s is always busy.
‘Left-hand side darling,’ Ama reminds Pado at every crossroads and roundabout.
By the time we get to London, Pado has to turn and say: ‘Yes, I’ve understood it’s the left. Thank you.’
Our drive is going to take a little longer than usual as we’re stopping near Regent’s Park for a doctor’s appointment. Ama gently tugs at my sleeve.
‘Jean-Pio, we’ve arranged for you to pop in on a colleague of Pado’s. He’s a headache specialist. A very good doctor.’
‘What headaches?’ I complain.
‘Come on. Please darling. It’ll only take a moment and we’ll all feel better.’
There’s no point arguing as Pado has already parked the car and started reading the door numbers. Giulio looks at me as if to say, ‘See, I told you.’
Pado helps me out of the car and Ama waits behind.
‘I’ll only complicate matters, really I will. Your father is much better at these things. I’ll stay with your brothers,’ she assures me.
Pado pushes a button on an intercom. A woman’s voice shouts back, out of the wall: ‘Fourth floor!’ We go up some brown-carpeted stairs. As we’re about to go in, Pado sits down on the sofa on the landing. He leans his head on his arms and takes a long, deep breath.
‘Are you all right Pado?’ I say.
He looks up and pokes me in the stomach, smiling. ‘Course I am. I’m just a little tired today and I can’t see when I’m going to find time to do my research for the next conference. Anyway, we’re here to sort you out. Not me. Come on caro! Andiamo!’
A secretary opens the door and the doctor emerges from behind her to greet us. He can’t wait to talk to Pado about his latest book. Pado would prefer to get straight to the point.
‘We’re in a bit of a rush, sorry, but if you come to my next lecture …’
The specialist is disappointed. He pulls his chair up towards me. Talking to Pado, he shines a torch into my eyes, takes my blood pressure and checks my knee reflexes.
‘You don’t have to bother with all that,’ Pado intervenes. ‘I’ve already checked him over. I think you just need to get him to describe his symptoms.’
I don’t know what to say except that I get headaches in the car and on the boat.
‘Describe us the feeling?’ the doctor asks. I can’t. ‘Where does it hurt?’ he adds. I don’t know.
Pado breaks in to avoid the silence. ‘He’s been having these headaches and dizzy spells for some time now. He gets some form of vertigo or migraine. It seems to come when he is tired. Maybe he’s a little dehydrated from time to time. My wife says he’s easily distracted too. Personally, I don’t see the connection.’
‘How often do you drink water?’ the doctor questions me.
I give him the same answer I’ve given Pado: ‘Every morning, lunch time and in the evening and, since I’ve been told to drink more, at tea time too.’
‘He