“Thank you so much,” Dee Moray said in English.
Pasquale felt sick.
Valeria bent and spoke sharply to their guest. “E smettila di mostrare le gambe al mio nipote, puttana.” And stop showing your legs to my nephew, you whore.
“You, too,” Dee Moray said, and squeezed Valeria’s hand. “Thank you.”
It was another hour before Tomasso the Communist arrived back at the hotel, his boat lurching into the marina. The other fishermen were already out; the sun was rising. Tomasso helped old Dr. Merlonghi onto the pier. In the trattoria, Valeria had prepared a hero’s meal for Tomasso, who once again removed his cap and was quiet with the importance of his job. But he had worked up an appetite and accepted the meal proudly. The old doctor was wearing a wool coat, but no tie. Tufts of gray hair shot from his ears. He followed Pasquale up the stairs and was out of breath by the time they reached Dee Moray’s room on the third floor.
“I’m sorry that I put you to all of this trouble,” she said. “I’m actually feeling better now.”
The doctor’s English was more practiced than Pasquale’s. “It is no trouble seeing a pretty young woman.” He looked down her throat and listened to her heart with his stethoscope. “Pasquale said you have stomach cancer. When were you diagnosed?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“In Rome?”
“Yes.”
“They used an endoscope?”
“A what?”
“It is a new instrument. A tube was pushed down the throat to take a photograph of the cancer, yes?”
“I remember the doctor looked down there with a light.”
The doctor felt her abdomen.
“I’m supposed to go to Switzerland for treatment. Maybe they’re going to do it there, this scope thing. They wanted me to go two days ago, but I came here instead.”
“Why?”
She glanced at Pasquale. “I’m meeting a friend here. He picked this place because it’s quiet. After that, I might go to Switzerland.”
“Might?” The doctor was listening to her chest, poking and prodding. “What is to might? The treatment is in Switzerland, you should go there.”
“My mother died of cancer . . .” She paused and cleared her throat. “I was twelve. Breast cancer. It wasn’t the disease so much as the treatment that was difficult to watch. I’ll never forget. It was . . .” She swallowed and didn’t finish. “They cut out her breasts . . . and she died anyway. My dad always said he wished he’d just taken her home and let her sit on our porch . . . enjoy the sunsets.”
The doctor let his stethoscope fall. He frowned. “Yes, it can make worse the end, treatment for cancers. It is not easy. But every day is better. In the United States are . . . advances. Radiation. Drugs. It is better now than it was with your mother, yes?”
“And the prognosis for stomach cancer? Has that gotten any better?”
He smiled gently. “Who was your doctor in Rome?”
“Dr. Crane. An American. He worked on the film. I guess he’s the best there is.”
“Yes.” Dr. Merlonghi nodded. “He must be.” He put the stethoscope over her stomach and listened. “You went to the doctor complaining of nausea and pain?”
“Yes.”
“Pain here?” He put his hand on her chest and Pasquale flinched with jealousy.
She nodded. “Yes, heartburn.”
“And . . .”
“Lack of appetite. Fatigue. Body aches. Fluid.”
“Yes,” the doctor said.
She glanced at Pasquale. “And some other things.”
“I see,” the doctor said. Then he turned to Pasquale and said in Italian, “Can you wait in the hall a moment, Pasquale?”
He nodded and backed out of the room. Pasquale stood outside in the hallway, on the top step, listening to their hushed voices. A few minutes later, the doctor came out. He looked troubled.
“Is it bad? Is she dying, Doctor?” It would be terrible, Pasquale thought, to have his first American tourist die in the hotel, especially a movie actress. And what if she really was some kind of princess? Then he felt ashamed for having such selfish thoughts. “Should I get her to a bigger city, with proper care?”
“I don’t think she’s in immediate danger.” Dr. Merlonghi seemed distracted. “Who is this man, the one who sent her here, Pasquale?”
Pasquale ran down the stairs and returned with the single sheet of paper that had accompanied Dee Moray.