Guy Russell
A Visitation by Proxy
In 2013 I spent a month in Verona, staying with a local family, going to Italian classes in the daytime, and having a lively social life in the evenings. Often after a night out I’d walk part of the way home along the Lungadige Panvinio beside the river, feeling happy, adventurous and high. On the late evening of this story, I was wearing a pale dress and had a piled-up hairdo which made me look taller, but it was March, so I’d covered my party clothes with a long dark coat. I was just coming towards the Croce Verde office when in the distance ahead of me I saw two men grappling and pushing in the middle of the street. I thought at first they were fighting, but as I neared it became clear they were lovers having a fierce row. The one on the left was marginally taller, with longer hair and a sneering face. The other, short-haired, began to plead and cry.
I slowed, not wanting pass them too close, and was considering whether to detour up a side-road when the first man pushed the other to the ground, strode over to a parked scooter, and sped off. The other picked himself up, shouted something tearful at the now-empty street, and started walking away ahead of me along the riverside. Several times, though, he stopped to lean over the balustrade, looking down into the Adige as if to a kindlier inamorato.
When I saw this, I quickened my pace, while still keeping a distance between us, in case I needed to dash forward and pull him back. He was quite oblivious of me, and shortly came out at the Ponte Garibaldi. As he did, I saw my bus coming, quickened my pace and caught up with him just as he got on. Sitting near the back, I continued watching him. He still looked so abject, slouched forward with his head in his hands, that I remained concerned. When the person beside me said scusi, I moved down the bus and took the empty seat beside him.
‘It’ll be all right,’ I said to his bowed head, in my imprecise and strongly accented Italian. ‘He’ll either sort it out with you, or if he doesn’t, you’ll be much better on your own.’
He gave a start, and looked up at me with amazement and considerable fear.
‘What?’
‘Have hope,’ I said. ‘Everything will be fine.’
He was staring at me still. I’d never inspired such a stare: it had respect, terror and utter belief. ‘But–who are you?’ he whispered.
I shifted my coat a little, to give a glimpse of my white dress beneath. ‘I’m your guardian angel,’ I told him. ‘Now close your eyes. When you’ve opened them, you’ll feel much better.’
Without a moment’s hesitation, he obeyed. My stop was coming up, and I quietly alighted. As the bus moved past, I saw him through the window with his eyes still closed, awaiting my orders. AQ