Chapter 1 : Part 1

Spring and Fall
by Nicholas Delbanco

She did not write him, or e-mail, or call. She thought about him often, as Lawrence no doubt had thought about her, but more than forty years had passed and the spilled milk was long since evaporated and water far under the bridge. There was nothing to say to him, nothing to ask, and no way to begin. Hiya, remember me?

The year is 1962. Lawrence is a senior at Harvard when he meets Hermia, a wild-spirited junior at Radcliffe. Their affair is swift and passionate, but neither is ready for marriage. Lawrence, just graduated, is restless and eager to see the world. Casually, a bit carelessly, they part company.

In later years, unknown to each other, they struggle through rising careers, breaking marriages, and dealing with prodigal children. Then, more than four decades later, they accidentally meet again on a Mediterranean cruise. With a love deeper, richer, yet more bittersweet than before, their romance will come full circle.

For Hermia, their reunion becomes a test of trust, as she wonders if Lawrence can again be the man she imagined when they were young. For Lawrence, it is a question of Hermia's painstakingly cultivated privacy, which he fears he may be unable to penetrate. For both, it will be their unexpected chance to awaken, together, from a lifetime of sleepwalking.

Moving back and forth in time and between the separate narratives of Hermia and Lawrence, Spring and Fall is an unforgettably poignant novel about the enduring power of first love, from one of our most acclaimed and essential authors.

Chapter 1

THE M.S. DIANA SET OUT FROM THE PORT OF ROME, her destination Valetta. Powering south from Civitavecchia, she had stops planned in Sorrento and, on the coast of Sicily, Naxos, Siracusa and Porto Empedocle. Built in 1960, she had been newly refitted. The ship had a Bridge Deck, a Baltic Deck, a Mediterranean Deck, a Caribbean Deck and, just above the waterline, an Atlantic Deck. In the old days, under sail, the journey might have taken months; now the trip from Rome to Malta was scheduled for six days. In the old days, in the times of war, these waters had been treacherous; now it was late September, and a pleasure cruise.

The ship's manifest listed fifty-seven cabins and a passenger capacity of 108, not counting crew; it was 87.4 meters long and 13.2 meters wide. The M.S. Diana's decor had been conceived of in the Swedish mode; she was remodeled in Gothenburg, with-so the brochure claimed-stylistic influence from France. Her owner was American, her flag Liberian, her crew came from Croatia. Their names, it seemed to Lawrence, made a kind of music; they introduced themselves as Vinko, Darko, Marko, Ivo, Miho, Vlatka and Andrea. He tried to remember their names.

Three nights before, he had flown from Detroit and in the morning reached Rome. There he checked into the Grand Palace Hotel, on the Via Veneto, and willed himself to rest. Across the street was the American Embassy, fenced in and heavily guarded; up on the next corner loomed the Excelsior, and down the way was the Piazza Barberini, with its Bernini Fountain and cascade of loud cars. He was sixty-four years old, recovering from angioplasty, and his doctor had suggested that he take a trip.

"You're fine," he said. "You've done just fine." "I don't feel"-Lawrence hesitated-"ready, really."

"The risk of stenosis is just about over. It's a statistical possibility, of course-we should wait a year to be certain-but the risk is minimal. And I'm not suggesting you go somewhere very far away. Not, I mean, some third-world country or up the slopes of Everest . . ."

"I'm not sure I'm up to it." "Depression," said his doctor, "is a common side effect. In men our age, in fact, it's damn near unavoidable. Why don't you take a cruise?"

He knew Tommy Einhorn well. They were neighbors in Ann Arbor, and they played tennis together, and he thought of Tommy as his friend as well as doctor; the advice was kindly meant. "I'm not the cruising type," said Lawrence.

"No?" "All that forced gaiety. The Princess Line. Calisthenics up on deck, the samba by the swimming pool; whatever it is they insist that you do . . ."

"No one's insisting on anything." Dr. Einhorn leaned back in his swivel chair and pressed his fingertips together. "It's only a suggestion. Let me repeat it: your heart's just fine. It's better now than it has been for years."

"Let's hope so," Lawrence said. "And these new Cypher stents are just the ticket." "Ticket?"

Einhorn laughed. "The ticket for the ticker, hey. Not bad. I must remember that."

SO HE HAD LOOKED FOR and then booked a trip to places it seemed safe to go, first stipulating that the cruise ship must be small. By "safe," Lawrence told the travel agent, he meant not so much safety from the threat of terror as somewhere where the medicine was adequate and from which, in case of trouble, he could leave. He signed up for travel insurance. The cruise itself had begun in Marseilles, with stops in Nice and Monaco, but he elected the single-week option and flew alone to Rome.

He had not been there in years. The airport, once so brightly new, seemed faded and shopworn, a little, and the train to the termine reeked. Years before, he had spent time in Italy, studying Renaissance architecture, and he ventured out to his old haunts-the Spanish Steps, the Borghese Gardens, the Campidoglio and back streets of Trastevere-with a kind of dutiful inclusiveness; to have been young in the Eternal City and to come there now again as an aging tourist was bittersweet at best. He felt not so much nostalgic as aggrieved.

The traffic had increased. The streets were clogged with Vespas, buses, taxis, and the air was rank. Lawrence monitored his breathing and waited for a telltale signal from his chest. It did not come. The Pantheon was ringed by motorcycles, and the Trevi Fountain-past which he could remember wandering at night, and where Anita Ekberg laved herself in La Dolce Vita, gown clinging wetly to her breasts-was now a photo op. Everywhere were groups of sightseers and, waving umbrellas or pennants, their guides.

His sleep was fitful, troubled, and the room too hot. He ate by himself, poorly, expensively, and the waiters addressed him in English. The elegant Italians and the girls in their scant dresses paid him no attention; only beggars waited for him, holding out their hands. The line in front of St. Peter's was so long and daunting that he did not revisit the cathedral or its chapel but walked by the Tiber instead.

Copyright © 2006 by Nicholas Delbanco

About the Author

Nicholas Delbanco's writing has earned him widespread recognition and many literary honors, including the Guggenheim Fellowship and two National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellowships. He served as founding director of the Bennington Writing Workshops and, since 1985, has directed the MFA Writing Program at the University of Michigan, where he also administers the prestigious Hopwood Awards. Nicholas Delbanco makes his home in Ann Arbor, Michigan, with his wife and their two daughters.