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The Great Novel Race 2008:

Last Train to the Sun

by Luigi Marchini

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Chapter 5

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The sun shines down on the great metropolis and also the hordes of plebs that are (and always have been) mere putty in its hands as they go about their business so meaningless in the grand scheme of things that it is not worth even a semi-second of thought. For when we and our ancestors are defunct, decayed, derelict, it will still be lording over us - we who will never know that we are mere subordinates unaware of our own servility. Its great edifices are so steeped in tradition and a history which will never be extinguished unlike our own which, when we are mere soil, is at once eradicated, not withstanding the narratives that try, vainly, to cover up the futility of our existence in the form of biographies, praise, eulogies. Inside a hospital, a nurse gets up, moves over to a window, looks up at the sun and pulls the blind down. In another part of the same hospital…   

Maria looks down at the baby asleep by her side. Is he happy? He looks it, with his eyes closed; his lips locked in a half-smile, and the soothing rhythm of his breathing. Of course he is. He doesn’t have any worries. Yet. She isn’t happy though. She should be – she gave birth only hours ago. They had said that she would be euphoric, that all new mothers are. She knows this is rubbish though – she isn’t stupid: she’s read lots of articles in the months since she knew. Not every woman feels the same. And in her case is it surprising that all she feels is emptiness, a sense that her insides have been pummelled incessantly and an infinite void is all that remains? And the pain of course. That still lingers. She hasn’t even held him yet, nor does she want to. If only she had gone through with the abortion. If only she wasn’t so afraid of her faith. If only she had been braver. It’s too late now.

The sun is bright, very bright. She needs the curtains drawn, the twinge in her back preventing her from getting up. She reaches for the buzzer and presses it. Whilst she waits she puts the radio headphones on: Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean isplaying for the umpteenth time. Why did she ever study English?  She notices the walls for the first time. They’re dark, a sort of greyish colour. Just like her dormitory back at the convent. Strange colour for a hospital – or convent come to that. Maybe its dirt. She hears the words: ‘…the kid is not my son’ and tears the headphones off. She stares at the baby. At that moment the nurse enters:

‘Yes, Maria?’

Maria says nothing. She still stares at the cot. Does he love her? She hopes he does. Despite how she feels.  Despite the fact that she wanted to kill him when he was in her belly. She is all he has.  He needs her.  He must love her. She shivers. What will it feel like to be wanted, needed? Scary. The nurse asks again:

‘What did you want Maria?’

Maria again says nothing, just hums to herself. The nurse approaches and taps her on the arm:

‘Maria?’

She turns to face the nurse and stops humming. Slowly a smile forms. Then she snaps in her broken English:

‘Go away!’

The nurse shrugs and leaves. Maria feels the pain in her back – she’s been sitting up for some time now. She lifts herself up even more – she isn’t at all comfortable -and hesitates, only for a moment, before pressing the buzzer again. This time another nurse appears:

‘Yes?’

‘Could I have another pillow please?’

The nurse says nothing, goes out and returns with a pillow. That’s better. Maria sees the nurse looking at her, her forehead frowning. Maybe she knows about the baby. She feels herself getting clammy, and she can feel her heart try to tunnel its way out. The nurse leaves without another word.

Relieved, Maria looks around again. It’s still bright – she had forgotten the curtains. She thinks about pressing the buzzer again but decides against it. It is a small room. Very small. Just big enough for the bed and the bedside locker which contains only some cotton wool, tissues, soap, a jug of water, plastic cups and a white nightdress. On it there’s only an empty vase and no cards. Well she hadn’t really expected any. Only the Mother Superior knew she was here.

  She looks closer at the baby now, surprising herself by noticing the way his hair is arranged in little blond tufts; how serene he looks with eyes shut; and how his blanketed form reminds her of a large snowball. He’s beautiful, no mistake. She raises her head, feeling her damp hair sticking slightly to the pillow. She turns slowly to look at it and sees the damp patch. She feels her hair – it’s wet. She’s sweating. Why?  She feels the moisture on her forehead and lifts her right arm to wipe it, noticing the night-gown she is wearing– plain, old-fashioned, and no frills. Standard hospital issue. She bends over the cot and starts to stroke, caress her baby’s face. He really is gorgeous. She feels she ought to love him – maybe she can one day. Now she is just enjoying the moment and she feels a warmth come over her, a feeling of pleasure which she thought she would never feel. A sort of redemption even. But then she sees a man.  He stands over her, and then she sees him push her over, and force himself inside her. She feels the pain. This brings her back and as she looks down at the baby, she notices that her hands are suspended just a few inches from the baby’s neck. But it isn’t his neck, it’s her attacker’s. And she sees the man's face again – that’s all she sees now.

She shakes her head and, as if she has just awoken from a dream, she lurches her head back and lies down, unsure and uncertain about anything. She pulls at her hair absent-mindedly. She shuts her eyes briefly. On opening them she stares ahead, wondering whether she really can be a mother to her baby. HER baby. She had thought of it as hers. Maybe with some effort she can be his mother after all.

No-one comes to visit – only the nurses.

 
She shouldn’t have left the other nuns and gone off on her own. But it was their first trip outside Italy - and to London of all places - and she just had to see all the sights before they left. No one else had wanted to go to Trafalgar Square anyway. She had asked him for directions as she had lost her way back to the bed and breakfast where they were staying. As she walked through the alley she was thrown to the floor. She screamed. He hit her across the face. She screamed louder – a mixture of pain and terror. He hit her again. Harder. And he held her down.  She opened her mouth but nothing came out. She felt her heart beat faster.

     ‘Scream again and I’ll kill you,’ he snarled.

     Didn’t he know she couldn’t? That she was so frightened not only couldn’t she say anything, she couldn’t move a muscle in her body? She was peeing herself.  She shut her eyes in shame, and she felt him rip her tights and force himself inside her. It hurt. A lot. She lay there for what seemed like hours afterwards, incapable of movement, eyes closed and humming hymns.

   Of course there are details missing from the above narrative - this novel is no War and Peace  (I don’t mean in terms of quality because I certainly know my limitations) after all (or no Mysteries of Udolpho either come to that) – no padding here just the essentials and these essentials  are the facts as they are presented to you. Maria is the same Maria that was handed over to the convent in Chapter 3. She is a nun (or perhaps I should say was) who was raped and as a result has given birth. By my reckoning she would probably be in her mid to late thirties. Now you know everything that I know. To me it seems likely that she stayed in London after the attack, perhaps feeling guilt, shame-I really don’t know. And does it matter? Surely all that matters is the here and now. History for all life is merely a tool to bring us to the present. So we, and especially Maria, have to concentrate on the present and the future because only by doing that can we ensure that the events in our past, no matter how painful, have served a purpose.

 

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