Short Stories

by Saddletank

A collection of one shots, maybe some two parters, mostly set in Italy when Seiji and Shizuku are married. Possibly some flashbacks to their schooldays. Some lemons, some humour, some romance, some sad, some just odd. A bit like a TV show, Friends maybe.

6. Episode 5 : In Sickness

Episode 5 – In Sickness

January 2006, Via Giovanni Maria Platina

Badly prepared fish was what caused it. I think. We were never sure, you never can be can you? But we talked about it afterwards and he had the calamari while I had the tuna. Adamo, Lisabet and Dio all had red meat and Agnetha was vegan. Seiji was the only one to fall ill. So it must have been the calamari. It was the only thing he and I didn't share. It had been a good evening. We'd not seen Dio for ages and it was nice to meet Agnetha, I'd heard about her from phone conversations and she is a really sweet person, very quiet and gentle. Finally Dio might even settle down. To think that Agnetha is a footballers wife. You wouldn't think so to look at her or see how she behaves. A real calming influence on him. Which is good, as he's almost as much trouble as Adamo.

We watched an opera in Milan, Dio got us a box, he gets recognised all the time now and can twist people around his finger with no trouble. And after the show that lovely meal. Lovely that is except for the calamari, apparently.

Dio's driver dropped us at our appartamento and we all went in for coffee. That lasted into the small hours, the laughing, the chatter. I love having friends round, especially good friends; people who are close to us and we can really talk to, not silly small talk but things that matter. Doesn't happen often enough. And then Seiji said he wasn't feeling so good and would call it a night.

They left. We did the minimum necessary and fell into bed. But it wasn't the end of the night. In fact it was just beginning. We cuddled and I drifted. I was in that lovely warm zone, that place between waking and sleep where you are thinking about things but you can't finish any sentences in your head, they trail off and hang lazily, moving smoothly in the breeze of approaching darkness. You try to go back to them to chase them down and complete your thoughts but none of them seem to matter and you wonder why you bothered.

Then I was dragged back again, a little way back to consciousness. He was restless beside me, he kept moving, turning, trying to get comfortable.

"'Sup?"
"Don't feel good. Sorry."

He got up and sat on the edge of the bed. Now I was fully back, musty with half-sleep but returning fast.

"Your head? Too much wine?"
"No. Stomach ache. Go back to sleep."
"Wasn't asleep anyway."

I got out of bed and threw on a robe, it was cooler in winter. Acclimatized to the Italian seasons now, we really noticed the winter temperatures. I pulled the curtain open. It had become overcast, the weather looked bad. I went to the fridge and poured him a glass of water.

"Here. Drink."
"Mm, thanks."

He sat for a while, holding his gut. I stood and watched the night.

"Bathroom."

He went. I waited, listening. There was a storm coming. Across the Po to the south the sky lit up, down toward Piacenza someone was getting it bad. The sky flickered with sheet lightning, below the horizon. It reflected off the clouds. God had a faulty light bulb. The storm was miles away, it was completely silent. But nearer at hand the fitful stutterings of light let me make out the treetops on the banks of the river and they were restless. Something was heading our way.

I heard him retching. I went to the bathroom door and rested my forehead on it, listening to him suffer. How much a person needs to help and comfort another at times like this, but the embarrassment of the contents of your stomach coming up keeps people apart. It sounded bad, deep repeated retches, painful ones. After a while it stopped.

There was a dull rumble of thunder, miles away. I stood there another minute. Silence. No flushing toilet, no taps running.

"Seiji? Are you alright?"

I knocked. Nothing. Knocked again. I opened the door.

"Oh, my God."

My poor lovely man hadn't even reached the toilet, it had come over him so fast. He'd collapsed on the floor and thrown up everywhere. The room stank. He was face down in his own mess. I knelt beside him, trying not to step in it. It was no good, the robe would trail in it. I took it off, bundled it up and threw it out in the hallway. The sharp acidic stench made me want to retch too. I went to the window and opened it. Then I checked him, he was unconscious, breathing was good, airway? I pushed two fingers in. Hm, clear. I sat him up and dragged him over the tiles to the wall and propped him in the corner near the shower. I ran the warm tap and got some flannels, wetting them I cleaned him: face, neck, chest, arm, stomach, leg. He didn't seem to have got it anywhere else. I opened his jaw and looked inside, poked a finger in, checking he really was clear there. I got a glass of water and rinsed his mouth out. I scrubbed him with a shower gel soaked flannel, that took away the worst of the stink from his skin.

Next, towels, dry him. I then got some floor cloths and wiped the worst of the mess into one area away from the door. A quick swill with disinfectant and mop the bits away. Getting him back to bed was a real struggle. I can lift him, just, for a very short distance but as a complete dead weight from off the floor I couldn't.

"Come on, boy."

Apologising I dragged him by his wrists into the hallway and to the bedroom. I eventually got him on the bed by a combination of lifting him under his armpits so his shoulders were up and then holding him in place with a knee in his crotch (sorry darling) I bent and got my arms round his waist. I rolled him over and turned him right way up, head on the pillow. Quick check again of his breathing. Yes, fine.

He looked terrible though.

I pulled the duvet over him. I noticed he was bathed in sweat, his skin, especially his face, was grey green. I lay a hand on his forehead and he was scalding. A fever. From this point on everything went into automatic mode, a bowl of clean cold water from the kitchen, ice cubes in it. Make more ice cubes. Piles of flannels from the laundry. I worked quickly and even though I wasn't dressed I forgot the cold. Medicine from the cupboard,

let's see, there's nothing much

some painkillers and some rehydrate was all we had. But nothing would stay down right now anyway. I also got the cleaning bucket and put a half inch of disinfectant in the bottom. I gathered things together and put a chair at his bedside. He was beginning to respond to the fever now, he muttered and turned his head. I sat and held a cold cloth on his forehead and with another wiped his neck, his wrists, under his arms.

More thunder, less distant this time. The stink of vomit was worse.

"Seiji, my darling, I'm not going far. Just cleaning in the next room. Call me if you need anything, hm?"
"Uhn," he groaned, he was probably in a dream, hadn't heard me. Or what he had heard, he wouldn't understand.
"If you need to be sick again, there's a bucket here, on the floor by the bed. On your left side. OK?"

I kissed his forehead. I opened the balcony doors a few inches to get air through. I opened them wider. Wide. Mesmerised, I watched the night sky, the flickering sheet lightning bounced and danced almost continuously. Opening curtains and doors fully I let the strange light fill the room, there was something fascinating about it. I could smell something on the air, rain was coming. Another rumble, louder.

In the bathroom I worked as fast as I could, going for maximum effect in the shortest time practical. The place would need a thorough disinfect later but at least you could walk in there now. Looking at the bathroom clock I saw it was nearly three. From time to time I looked back in the bedroom watching him. He was rolling about in his sleep, tossing and turning, muttering.

I went to the discarded clothes I'd worn earlier in the day, before we'd gone out for the evening, and from the pile I put on the sweatshirt and skirt, no underwear.

And after that it was a case of waiting. Sitting and waiting. And watching. I made coffee, good and strong and sat by him. He had a terrible night. He turned from side to side, moaning and trying to push the duvet off. The fever was burning him up but I needed to keep him warm, sweating it out would help.

Around four the storm came. I was taking a break and standing by the doors looking at the garden. Cremona was silent. It's not often I don't sleep well, I think Seiji is more restless than I in that respect, so I hardly ever see the deep silent middle of the night. I had just refreshed the flannel on his forehead, I knew he'd turn over soon and throw it off again, but for a precious while he was peaceful. I could hear his breathing, heavy and shallower than usual.

Half an hour previously the lightening had begun to change. It was coming closer, walking up the hill of the horizon, it became visible inside the clouds. Then as it marched upon me it changed to those distinctive forks, joining earth to sky. The worrying thing was they didn't stride across the sky, they just got brighter and louder. Which meant the storm was coming straight for us. The clouds above were dense, a dark steel purple grey with a solid base, as impenetrable as the side of a battleship. The thunder grew louder until I flinched with each lightning flash, knowing what was to follow. What was the old kids game? Count the seconds and for every five it's a mile away? Once you learn that on your father's knee you never forget it, and you always do it, you can't not do it. Lightning, and count, and one- two- three- four- five- and so on. And rumble. Louder than the last rumble. Wait, apprehensive, a child again. Lightning, and count, and one- two- three- and so on. And RUMBLE. Much louder. Hm, still five miles away. What will it be like when it's overhead? But as it came closer I could begin to feel it and smell it. The temperature dropped sharply. My legs were suddenly cold. I don't wear trousers, I never have. I hate them. I have only one old pair I do the painting in and one warm pair I wear for winter when it's really cold. And now it was cold, so I took off the skirt and put these on. Back at the balcony I smelled it. The rain. The rain was coming.

Seiji moaned and rolled over. I went to him and he retched again into the bucket. Kneeling I held it for him while his diaphragm painfully cramped again and again. FLASH. There was nothing left to come up. What remained of the poison would have to go down. Hm, the fun of that should arrive later in the night BANG – ROARRRRRRR ow, that one's close or tomorrow morning.

The crash of thunder had that sharp solid edge to it now, the kind of sound that shocks the ears, offending you with the knifeblade of its suddenness. Painfully pushing in your eardrums with its simple presence. No longer a distant thing that rumbled and you could enjoy because it indicated someone else's misfortune, now it was near, very near and it began to be scary, as though it was coming after you and it was now a personal thing.

I wiped his mouth and the sour dribble from his chin and heaved him back into bed. His arm lifted and gripped mine.

"Sh… Shu…"
"Shush, now, it's OK, try and sleep."
"Sh-zuuuuu…"
"Shhh, yes, I'm here."
"Zuuuu-kuuuuu…"
"Shhh…"
"Huuuuurts…"
"I'm here, I love you"

I leaned over and held him, pressing his head to my shoulder. Smelling his hair. He coughed. He was shaking and clammy. FLASH! oh my God, close, it's close now

And one- The bang that followed shook the building, I jumped in fright, it had been impossible to count past one. It was here, right over us, the roaring rumbling afterwards of the sound reverberated around me, all across the city. Car alarms sang, like birds before dawn. I sat on the edge of the bed and held him hard against me, as much to comfort myself as to offer comfort.

I looked at the garden and saw it coming, in the next lightning flash, a little way from us was a wall, a tall endless wall as though of a glacier, made of shimmering grey and moving, breathing. Through it faintly visible were the roofs and chimneys of buildings, the tops of trees. I saw it only for an instant, as in the flash of a camera. The next thunder crack came and something rattled in the kitchen. I yelped in fear and shrank down instinctively, trying to make myself a smaller target for whatever it was my mind tried to escape from. Another flash and the wall of water was upon us, I could see it half way across the garden, some of our pine trees were silhouetted against it, the remainder already hazy, swallowed up and bending to the sudden load. I have never seen rain like it, not the weight of it, nor its approach like that, tsunami-like. The next offensive roar of sound coincided with its arrival and our four square metres of tiled balcony vanished under the pounding wall, instantly it was awash, an inch of water and within a minute, two inches. There were rainwater runoffs from it but these could hardly cope. Fortunately there is a step down from the bedroom and we were not flooded out (I smiled, three floors up) but even so I went to the doorway and watched this magnificent spectacle, my senses overcome with its violence and splendour. We had endured bad storms in Japan sometimes but never anything like this. As the thunder boomed and roared around us, over us, it was like being inside a drum.

I was awake all that night. I sat by him, wiping his brow, holding his hand and talking to him when he talked. He wouldn't hear me but he might feel my presence. Through his fever he would speak disjointed things, mutterings and half words I mostly couldn't catch, but from time to time a word would come clearly, names usually, my name, or a call for "mom" or "grandpa" and once a complete sentence came through,

"Father, I don't care, I am going to marry her. You can't stop me."

I held his hand and watched his face as pain and emotion swirled there. Some other words came too, bad words that I won't repeat, and things best left unsaid entirely, things I have never repeated back to him. I hold them in my heart and wonder what they mean, but console myself that in a fever the mind is drawn out and stretched beyond what it can usually stand, and from deep below, from the unconscious, fears and hopes you do not face while waking, are drawn pitifully out and exposed. These are not things he has ever mentioned to me awake, nor even in normal dreams, they are far down inside and there they should stay.

I listened to the storm receding, marching away like a blindly raging Gulliver over Lilliputian Cremona, his boot heels crashing down and grinding. The rain lessened after the first five minutes but remained heavy and steady for over an hour.

I went through the flannels and the cold water and refreshed both. Around five thirty I ran out of ice, I was using it faster than the freezer could make it.

And then, worst of all, worse even than that terrible noise and that mindless wall of water, and even the horrible things he showed me from his unconscious, the poison sought another outlet from his system. He moaned, part conscious and got out of bed. I led him to the bathroom and sat him down and the evil pollutants left him, gasping and weak. This was worse than the vomit, even though I didn't need to clean up. However, I did need to wipe him, like a baby that soils itself and is unaware of what it's doing, I had to wipe his soiled body and drag him back to bed. I thought of my wedding vows: for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health and came to know that long dismal night what those vows meant. I served him every minute because he was unable to help himself, even the basics, the most primitive acts of hygiene were beyond him, so I did those for him. And if it hadn't been for the strength of those wedding vows, and how much I cared for him, I wouldn't have been able to do this. I thought of what it would be like if I were ill, this sick and this vulnerable and helpless. Yes, he'd do this for me, wipe me clean, wipe my intimate places even though the act made him retch he'd do it, I knew he would. And the comfort I drew from knowing that drove me on. This was sharing I suppose. When you consider marriage and sharing your life with another person you don't think of things like this but this is one of the real tests. Care for a sick person in this way and you are almost there, showing almost all you need to. I suppose the only greater devotion would be to a person severely injured or handicapped and unable to help themselves, or a child born brain damaged in which your whole life would become merely a caring supporting act. Or perhaps, for the elderly, when their mind unhinges and they can no longer cope, and you become a nurse, a companion, a cook and a cleaner. Thinking of these examples I realised how lucky we were, what amazingly happy and downright fortunate lives we had.

Humbled, I prayed that night, as the first tints of dawn came creeping over holding the skirts of the storm. I prayed my thanks for our carefree lives, and wept.

Towards seven he finally stopped moaning and cursing and fell into a deeper sleep. I stripped and climbed into bed beside him and held him, and exhausted, despite the night, thankful for what it had taught me, I slept.

-o-oOo-o-

It was light but for a moment I could make no sense of my surroundings. I felt as though I had slept for hours but my bedside clock sagely advised me it had been merely two. I sat up and held my head. It felt like a wet sponge, useless and floppy. Coffee. Coffee was the cure for this. And headache tablets. And brushing my teeth. A three way cure all for a bad night, patent pending.

I did the necessary, throwing on clothes and doing the rounds to bathroom, medicine cabinet, kitchen. Carrying a scalding mug back into the bedroom I glanced at him. Still sleeping, laying on his back his greyish pallid skin was finally dry, the sweating had eased, his tangled mass of hair wound around his face. I dragged a few strands away and touched a palm to his forehead. Warm, but better, the fever's back had broken. His features were no longer contorted in pain and stress but relaxed. I sat at the bedside and drank the coffee. He was the coffee expert in this household and I had never mastered the mysteries of that big silver machine that mocked me from the corner, mocked my clumsy attempts to get it to deliver drinkable espresso. So I'd made instant, and it was foul. Bitter and way too strong with a revolting sludge at the bottom. I drank it all down with relish. It was the most delicious thing I'd ever tasted.

I watched his sleeping face, wiping away a few stray hairs from his forehead. He looked awful, his skin the colour of cheap industrial paper hand towels. He stank as well, when he was able to I'd make him use my bath. Not a quick shower, that wouldn't do. He needed a good long soak. I'd help him, I'd climb in with him and scrub away this awful night. I looked forward to doing that. After the things I'd had to do in the last hours it would be a pleasant diversion.

I ate a quick breakfast and did a cursory check round the appartamento for any damage, water in anywhere, cracked windows or fallen pictures. We'd been lucky, I'm sure one or more of the lightning strikes had been close, the Torrazzo had probably been hit but looking at it through the dull dawn rain it seemed OK. I washed and got dressed properly (isn't it amazing how just brushing your hair makes you feel so much better), phoned his workshop (Fabrizio is so sweet, mad as a hatter but very sweet with it), selected a book and made a fresh coffee and returned to his bedside. I tried to read but couldn't, so I talked to him. I told him about the book I was writing and how much I was in love with the male character I'd created. He worked in a Tokyo museum and bought musical instruments and had to deal with clever fakes. I think I loved him because there was some Seiji in him. My voice trailed off, I didn't want to talk either. I knew what I wanted to do. I moved the chair away, got on my knees, drew down the duvet and lay my head on his bare chest, nuzzling up under his chin. He didn't smell very nice, my nose wrinkled at the mixture of vomit, disinfectant, shower gel and sweat. But under all that there was still a hint of him, an earthy, woody, oily scent. It reminded me of grandpa's workshop all those years ago and that first evening I'd seen him. Here was where I needed to be, doing nothing but have contact with him, smelling nothing but him, feeling nothing but his heart and his ragged breathing.

There was movement, an arm lifted and came over me, on my shoulder. His head turned trying to look at me but I was too close, too low.

"Welcome back," I said
"Thirsty," was his only greeting.

He would be alright now, the poison had gone from his body, and soon he would sit up and look about him and be maddeningly well again. Hungry and moving around the rooms, filling them, getting in my way, talking when I needed peace, helping me cook when I really only wanted to cook for him, and most maddening of all, being at work when I needed him in my arms.

But for now, for a few more minutes I wanted him to stay ill so I could remain here and hold him and do nothing but smell that unappealing hospital-like mix of scents but hiding at the bottom of which was his.

-o-oOo-o-

A week went by and I began to feel something, something coming, the feeling I have when a story is hatching and itching inside me and it needs scratching. Days like that I will switch on the laptop and just let spew out whatever it is that needs scratching. Often junk will emerge and I'll know it was a false alarm. But sometimes something worthwhile is born and it will either be a sketch of a character or a skeleton of a scene or even some notes that become a plan for a story.

But this day what came out was something quite unheard of with me. A poem. It wasn't right at first and needed a great deal of messing with before it began to take the shape I felt comfortable with. And in the end some six weeks went by before I was happy with it. A tweak or two here and there and it was done. And when it was done, not only was I happy with it, but I was delighted. I even felt that it might work to music, so rather mischievously, one day I printed it out and mailed it to Seiji's workshop, so he would come across it first when I wasn't around and he could take it in without interference from me.

I wondered how long it would be before he mentioned it but a month went by, then two until one day in late April he came home, picked up a violin, a scrap of paper and dragged me outside into the garden.

He stood and played. I listened, as I had so many times. It was a lovely tune, wistful, sad and enduring. It wrenched at something inside me and pulled it loose. As so often when he plays the loose bit inside me made me leak. With my eyes already wet and my heart already aching he thrust the piece of paper at me. It was the poem and he'd added some musical notes and guide points.

"In D minor and you come in after two bars, let's just see how it goes."
"I can't sing, I'm almost on the verge of crying."
"You sing best then, like you did at our wedding. Singing and crying together when it comes from you is perfect. Lets try."

Well we had a go, and a few more goes and a few arguments and some laughs. It's hard when you've written verse and have an idea how it might sound to music, but then go and do something stupid like allow yourself no input at all in the song writing part. So what he'd done wasn't what I'd have done but it did grow on me after a time. And eventually, although not that evening, I came to love that song. It's called Lullaby For a Stormy Night, and unfortunately you can't hear the tune, but I can show you the words.

Little child, be not afraid
The rain pounds harsh against the glass
Like an unwanted stranger
There is no danger
I am here tonight

Little child, be not afraid
Though thunder explodes
And lightning flash
Illuminates your tear stained face
I am here tonight

And someday you'll know
That nature is so
This same rain that draws you near me
Falls on rivers and land
And forests and sand
Makes the beautiful world that you see
In the morning

Little child
Be not afraid
The storm clouds mask your beloved moon
And its candlelight beams
Still keep pleasant dreams
I am here tonight

Little child, be not afraid
The wind makes creatures of our trees
And the branches to hands
They're not real, understand
And I am here tonight

And someday you'll know
That nature is so
This same rain that draws you near me
Falls on rivers and land
And forest and sand
Makes the beautiful world that you see
In the morning

For you know, once even I
Was a little child
And I was afraid
But a gentle someone always came
To dry all my tears
Trade sweet sleep for fears
And to give a kiss goodnight

Well, now I am grown
And these days have shown
Rain's a part of how life goes
But it's dark and it's late
So I'll hold you and wait
'til your frightened eyes do close

And I hope that you'll know
That nature is so
This same rain that draws you near me
Falls on rivers and land
And forests and sand
Makes the beautiful world that you see
In the morning

Everything's fine in the morning
The rain will be gone in the morning
But I'll still be here in the morning

And now, when he plays this, and I sing it, and the mood is right, it makes me cry. Partly because of his playing (and because I look at his face when he's playing) and partly because I remember a terrible stormy night when everything went wrong and in his fever he said dreadful secret things from deep inside and my keeping those secrets puts me somehow both in his debt and he in mine, locking us together.

And when he hears me sing and almost come to tears at the same time, he says he feels like crying too.

27 Feb – 1 Mar 2007

Note: no, I didn't write it. I wish I had. It's another song by the gorgeously talented Vienna Teng. Please listen to it, it's magical.