Patricia and Malise by Susanna Johnston Page B

some distress. The apartment in Lucca that you rent from my cousin seems to have been empty for many months. No rent has been paid and several of your possessions are still there. Books, a wireless, camping equipment (including a folding tent), some samples of brickwork and a camera. Then outside, is an interesting car, an old Lagonda, which takes up space for others. Nobody knows where the key is for this car. My cousin is anxious to re-let the apartment and neighbours are getting upset about the car. The spare key to the apartment has been kept by a kind store holder in the large piazza and they had, on my cousin’s instructions, let themselves in to see if your things were still there. Please can you reply to me here at the British Museum and explain this mystery.
    Christian answered the letter, apologised, told of Malise’s dementia and reassured Giovanni that the rent was to be paid and that he, possibly accompanied by Malise , would make plans to go to Lucca to sort things out as soon as it was possible to do so.
    Malise stood, rigid and pale, and almost appealingly submissive as Christian plotted the journey. Most of the time his mind seemed to be dead blank. Sometimes it stirred and he added a comment or two.
    â€˜Yes. Lucca. Very pleasant. Bells. Many bells.’
    But he was of no practical use and Christian went ahead showing masterly power – trimming his brother’s hair, shaving his face and cooking his meals. Malise was still able to scramble into his clothes and to use the lavatory where he nearly always forgot to pull the plug.
    Before winter was over the brothers went together to Lucca. No key to the apartment was to be found amongst Malise’s few possessions and Christian suspected him of having thrown it away in one of his rare but recurring fits of petulance. Malise was certainly in no state to travel alone and Christian enjoyed taking full charge.
    In the town they met with the store holder who kept the spare key. Christian borrowed it with gratitude and the help of a dictionary. Malise almost galloped up the seventy-nine steps with glazed but shining eyes as though something tugged at him. Once there they were deafened by bells and in amongst an unmade bed, kitchen equipment and detached oddments including brick samples. Food and rubbish, it transpired, had earlier been removed by the neighbours who held the spare key. Malise stood by the window and, ape-eyed, looked at the basket attached to the rope as, Christian with unprecedented practical skill, put Malise’s belongings together with the intention of wrapping and posting them during the days to come. He located the key to Ruggles under the ancient brick where it had been hidden, pocketed it and planned to decide, later, what on earth to do with the wretched car.
    Malise spoke once or twice but never using more than a word at a time.
    â€˜Comestibles. Ruggles. Tent. Tent. Tent.’
    Between tasks, wrapping and posting – two crates sent by sea – they ate sandwiches and drank coffee at the bar in the main piazza – the one outside which Patricia had fallen from her bike. Now they sat indoors as winter was not over. Although two of the waiters greeted him with warmth, Malise showed no signs of recognition. He just sat and, mindlessly, munched slowly on a sandwich.
    One day, late in the morning, Christian ordered slices of pizza to be warmed up as Malise stared at the rails of a staircase that wound up to a sign saying ‘Cabinetto.’
    There was a gust, a whirlwind. Christian turned and saw a boy, no more than nine or ten years old, race towards Malise calling ‘Sir. Sir. Where were you? I’ll find Mamma. She’s talking with her friend, at the back there. Drinking coffee.’
    Having given his order, Christian returned to where Malise, unconscious of the excitation with which he had been greeted, sat. The boy had raced to retrieve his mother and was dragging her back towards the object of