Fiona Dares to Disturb

By Marcelo Antinori

Fiona chose her own routes; no maps, no limits, and no fear. Happy times and darker hours, she outlived them all, and now, in an elderly community, full of complex international characters, she dares to disturb the rules, igniting a revolution challenging corrupt doctors and sinister medical practices.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781543999532

Marcelo Antinori

Brazilian-born author Marcelo Antinori is an economic development specialist who has worked in many countries around the world. He has published novels in Portuguese, Spanish, and English, reflecting his rich and varied experiences. Currently, he divides his time between Brazil and Maryland.

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Print ISBN: 978-1-54399-952-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54399-953-2

To Vera, Jean and the women from Valle Verde

Do I dare disturb the Universe?

In a minute there is time for decisions and

revisions which a minute will reverse.

T.S. Eliot

Table of Contents

It all started on an early morning

A dream comes true

A lunch at the beach

Choosing what to remember

She was hiding something

A chief physician who has nothing to hide

Who is walking in the woods?

It’s never too late to start a revolution

A symphony for the woods

Vivian lives for her wines

Confessions of a not so distant past

Almost no time to rest

A couple of excruciating days

Better to follow the dead

Are the dead alive?

Escaping from the past

All help is needed

A fifty years’ talk

A quite interesting doctor

Now we must run

Doctors who do not heal

A complex agreement is reached

And the nightmare continues

Never-ending surprises

It’s time to wrap up the story

I

It all started on an

early morning

It started with a dream…but was it just a dream?

Fiona had always had the strange impression that some of her nightmares carried a bad omen. It was irrational she knew, but often she felt that real events were a repetition of things she had once dreamed. Not only once. Many times. Her nights were a rollercoaster of images and emotions.

In her dream she was with three other women, and supposedly, one of them was her daughter. The building was bizarrely modern, and after running through empty corridors, she reached some sort of intensive care room. The twins, her best friends, were there, unconscious, as if they were in a deep coma, tied to tubes and surrounded by beeping and flashing machines. Was this some kind of premonition?

She opened her eyes to look at the alarm clock; it was still too early to get out of bed. She breathed deeply. Maybe it was Nina’s fault. The night before Nina had insisted that Convent Hill was going to be sold to Chinese investors. It was something Nina had heard from someone who heard or saw someone talking about it. Nothing explicit, possibly just paranoia, but Fiona was worried. She did not want further shifts in her life.

Nothing was scheduled for that morning; it was Thursday, no yoga class. The single project for the day was the outing with the girls to the beach restaurant; they all missed those giant grilled shrimps. The last lunch had been so pleasant. Abby, one of the twins, polished off a few Mojitos and, after singing Filipino songs to the bewildered customers on the terrace, rode back to Convent Hill delivering impassioned political speeches in her native language through the window of the car.

The outing had been Fiona’s idea. The twins were depressed by the departure of the Bulgarian, and a trip to the beach would certainly cheer them up. To be honest, Fiona did not have great sympathy for him—the Bulgarian stank from the cigarettes he smoked—but the twins were sorrowful and could not stop repeating and repeating to everyone that the Bulgarian was the best mahjong player at Convent Hill, which was no surprise since he had been a professional chess player in his youth.

The meeting with the girls was scheduled for eleven in the Café; from there they would walk to the parking lot and take Fiona’s car. Or was it at eleven-thirty? Meetings scheduled at specific times invariably caused tension and misunderstanding among them; short-term memory was not their strongest asset. The twins could discuss with absolute clarity any Asian event of past decades and Nina, the fourth girl, was keen in describing details of costumes she wore as Carmen at La Scala in Milan in the 1950s, but all of them would forget in a few minutes simple things they had just agreed upon.

Three years had passed since Fiona McGrath Kincaid had moved to Convent Hill. In the beginning, she felt bored, and her only comfort was to wander around looking at the artwork displayed throughout the corridors. Curiously the first person with whom she had become friends was Nina; somehow, Fiona quickly realized that behind her intimidating, grumpy, and arrogant attitude, the Italian former opera singer was a refreshing companion.

Nina was a few years older, and although her mind was extremely acute and very creative, her legs were weak, and she depended permanently on a wheelchair. They had lunch together one or two times and then chatted under the shade of the Brazilian peppertree. A few weeks later the Filipino twins joined them, and after that, their evening meetings under the peppertree became a routine.

The girls’ conversation was always lively. The twins loved to talk about their past and insisted that, despite the corruption, Marcos’ dictatorship had been essential to preventing the Philippines from falling into communist hands, and Nina, who was not interested in politics, was always cocky when describing her opera tours.

Fiona was a good listener, but didn’t like to share her own stories; no judgments were welcome. She had wasted too much time trying to figure out how things could have been different. It was useless. She had managed to survive the hell she had fallen into after Francesca’s death, and now enjoyed the favorable winds that pulled her ahead. No regrets. A few frustrations perhaps, but it had all been worth it. She was alive, and in Convent Hill, she had everything she needed.

Fiona was feeling lazy that morning. At Srinagar Lake or in the Sicilian Mountains, she had just needed to open the window and hug Francesca to be happy, but now it was different. To be happy at an old age is an art.

It was a foggy dawn, but the sun was already making an effort to come through. Her apartment was like all others in Convent Hill: efficient, cozy, but minimal, no excess space to care for. The bedroom was private; not even the girls had been in there. It was like a personal shrine for the memory of Francesca: a single bed, a chest with a few photos on it, including one of Francesca at the Blue Nile Falls in Ethiopia with a backpack and a fearless look, and another of both of them rowing on Dal Lake in Srinagar. Fiona laid a little jade Buddha in between the two pictures—it was a gift Francesca had given her when they first arrived in China.

On the wall, above the headboard, she had a larger image of the two of them sitting at a terrace table in Cefalú, Sicily, where Francesca was writing a few words on a blue napkin.

The other room of her apartment, a small but comfy living room, was less private; it was there that Fiona received her few visitors. The decoration was simple; no photos or paintings on the walls, just bookshelves, a couch, two comfortable chairs, and a table beside the kitchen where she had her breakfast that morning.

After a long shower, Fiona opened the closet and chose a pair of pink pants to match the dyed strands of her hair and a loose-fitting blouse of light blue flowers on a creamy yellowish background. She loved colorful clothes. Fiona initially considered wearing the red sneakers, but then, to provoke Nina and her European-conservative elegance, she put on a white sneaker with a red sole on her left foot and a red one with the white bottom on the right. For her, it was always a pleasure to irritate Nina, and those contrasting sneakers would make her furious.

Since she had plenty of time, she went for a walk; Convent Hill with its quiet streets, the architecture of the old convent, and the nearby woods was a pleasant place to ramble.

Fiona never enjoyed the morning activities organized by management; for her, they were all tedious, and the only exception was the yoga classes three times a week. She preferred to walk freely through the campus where she could briefly speak with whomever she wanted. Fiona always favored quick chats, which gave her more flexibility: when the subject was no longer engaging, good-bye. Long conversations were a pleasure strictly reserved for her close friends.

To have an excuse for her solitary morning walks, she volunteered to be a Tree Inspector—her task was to ensure that management was not neglecting tree maintenance—but this was just an excuse; trees do not require daily inspections, and in Convent Hill all of them were cataloged, labeled, and in excellent condition. Nina, the person who probably knew Fiona best, used to say that those walks were part of a defense strategy: Fiona hates political discussions, and as she doesn’t talk about her past, she is always looking for fresh gossip to fuel our afternoon chats.

Her first encounter that morning was with old Armstrong, her next-door neighbor.

Every morning Armstrong came out of his apartment with a flannel to clean and polish his red Ford Mustang solemnly parked under a velvet ash tree. Saturday, Sunday, it didn’t matter, every day, invariably—except for when it rained. Then, his frustrated face could be seen staring at his car from his apartment window. The irony was that he could no longer drive. His eyes were tired, and the doctor refused to renew his driver’s license. Anyway, he did not let his son sell the Mustang and insisted that the car should be parked in front of the apartment, always shining.

Fiona approached him with two thumbs up, showing that she was impressed by the car’s brilliance. She wanted to talk to him. Fiona knew that Armstrong had filed a complaint to management and she wanted to ask him about it.

Pets were allowed, and even encouraged, at Convent Hill, but Armstrong had a problem with the French Lady’s cat.

That’s not a cat, he insisted, still polishing the hood of the Mustang. It’s huge, and it looks like a leopard.

Armstrong, he never attacked anyone, Fiona replied, trying to reassure him.

But one day he will, he insisted, and after rubbing the hood a few more times, he added: That cat is racist. With white people he is gentle, but you must see how he threatens me, and Armstrong continued to buff his car, clearly his priority at that moment, and nothing, not Fiona’s presence nor the memory of the cat’s teeth exposed in anger, could divert his attention.

Fiona left him alone with his cloth. She did not try to speculate with him about the Chinese investors that Nina had mentioned the day before. Armstrong was a quiet man who spent most of his time watching sports on TV and would not be aware of any new rumor.

She continued on her walk. In the main garden, in front of the lobby, she stopped to talk to her friend, Abby, who was gardening with other residents—it was important at Convent Hill to take up volunteer functions, and just as Fiona inspected trees, others, like Abby, worked in the gardens. That morning the Texas cowboy and the mother-son duo from Massachusetts were working with her.

The Texan was one of the first residents of the community. He always wore a cowboy hat, and that was why he was known as the Cowboy. The Texan had made a lot of money in real estate, but when his wife died, he split everything he had among his children and moved to Convent Hill. Fiona often talked to him.

He might know something about the Chinese proposal, Fiona thought—he knew the owners of Convent Hill—but as they were not alone, Fiona opted not to ask.

The other two gardeners, mother-and-son, were one of the favorite topics of conversation at Convent Hill. Nobody knew their names; they were known only as the duo. The two had always lived together. Even when the son moved to college, they didn’t split apart; the mother rented an apartment near the university where she prepared breakfast, lunch, dinner, and even a snack when her son had to study at night. The duo lived together in Boston and then in Philadelphia when he moved there for a job. They also took several cruises through the Caribbean and the Mediterranean, always together. They sailed along the Danube, and visited India, China, and Japan.

When the mother fell and broke her leg, they moved to Convent Hill, where each had their own apartment, but next to each other. The mother’s apartment was a constant mess since she never had time to clean it; she spent her whole day spiffing up her son’s. No employee ever entered there; and despite permanently needing a walker, she was the only one in charge of cleaning and maintaining its tidiness.

Fiona talked to the duo very briefly; they were not her favorite residents.

Before leaving the garden, she called to Abby from afar that their meeting would be at eleven. Abby seemed surprised, and Fiona repeated, Eleven at the Café.

At the main building, Fiona greeted everyone and walked to the Café, where, many of the residents gathered to talk about current events.

Maria, the other Filipino twin, was there. Politics was her passion, and the morning debates were the highlight of her day. Fiona watched and when she caught Maria’s glance, Fiona signaled that she would be back for their meeting at eleven o’clock. Maria acknowledged her, nodding her head.

From there she continued through the main hallway, walking past the games room, which was closed in respect for the departure of the Bulgarian, and headed toward the library, where her friend, Michael, was browsing through a few books, sitting elegantly on a comfortable armchair beside a huge Diego Rivera painting.

Fiona and the girls always related better to women. "Men sono eternal conquerors, Nina used to say in her Italian accent. They glance into the mirror and do not realize they have lost their charms." Michael and Chandre, a gay couple, were the most significant exception to that rule. The two were British; Chandre was the son of an Englishwoman, a diplomat who had served in India as a high adviser to the Governor-General and had fallen in love with the gardener of the Rambagh Palace in Jaipur, a romantic and scandalous story. Chandre’s full name was Chandreradatt. He was still a remarkably handsome man and, despite his age, he maintained the same slender body of his youth as a professional cricketer. Michael, his partner, was the intellectual type, and had delicate gestures. The irony was that Chandre, who had a strong and virile appearance, was the one with a more feminine behavior.

At Convent Hill, Chandre coordinated the sports activities and Michael was responsible for the library. They had been born on the same street in London, but it was only when Chandre retired from his cricket career that they had made their relationship public. The two rarely sat with the girls under the Brazilian peppertree—somehow the girls’ afternoon chats looked intimidating to the boys—but they frequently joined them for supper in the dining room.

The library was practically empty that morning; only Michael was there. Fiona asked Michael if he had found his shawl; at supper, the evening before, he had mentioned that his Palestinian cloak had disappeared from his apartment.

He gestured in the negative.

Amazing, commented Fiona, Convent Hill is such a peaceful and friendly place, but from time to time things mysteriously vanish.

Fiona spent a few minutes with him, checking the new books they had received. She did not mention Nina’s concerns about the Chinese: Michael had been with her when Nina made the comment, and he had shared the impression that it was just an unreliable rumor.

From the library, Fiona walked to the conference room, and at the doorway, she gazed for a few moments at the Candido Portinari painting, one of her favorites on the campus. Inside the conference room, two young women from the local university were having a discussion with the Greek actress. The Greek, one of the best-known residents of Convent Hill, saw Fiona at the door and approached her with a condescending smile.

I cannot stand these young girls, she said. "They don’t know anything about Sophocles or Aeschylus and insist on giving a lecture about Oedipus Rex and Prometheus Bound."

Fiona just nodded her head; she knew very well the arrogance of the Greek, who, surprisingly, on that morning, was casually dressed in a jogging outfit.

With the excuse that she was in a hurry, Fiona went out looking for Charlotte, the Canadian sculptress. Fiona always thought that Charlotte could be the fifth member of the girls, and had invited her many times to chat under the peppertree, but the Canadian was always busy. When her husband died, and her kids moved away with their families, she joined Convent Hill and became a sculptress, at first as a hobby, then as a passion, and later—according to Nina who was a little bit jealous of Charlotte’s artistic success—as an obsession. Although she started her sculpting career at almost seventy, she had become a respected artist, receiving invitations to exhibit in San Francisco and New York, but she never left Convent Hill. She liked to say that her inspiration was hidden somewhere there.

Fiona knew that Charlotte was giving a class for other residents and identified a group of them with masks and torches, welding metal plates, but she decided not to interrupt.

As she still had time, she walked to the pool where the sportier residents, like Chandre, were practicing hydrogymnastics. While she was observing their exercises, Fiona glanced at the entrance of the woods and noticed some strangers. They were not walking around admiring trees or watching birds. Quite intriguing: two men and two women whom she had never seen before. She looked carefully, and none of them seemed to be Chinese buyers. Nonetheless, their clothes and attitude were formal, giving Fiona the impression that they were engaged in some unusual activity. Who were they? The forest at the back of Convent Hill was for the exclusive use of the residents. How was it possible that strangers, Chinese or not, were walking around there?

II

A dream comes true

Convent Hill is not a typical elderly community. The main shareholder is a woman named Vivian, but almost no one has ever seen her. The residents only know that she inherited the shares from her parents and that she produces wine in northern California. Convent Hill was an idea, or perhaps, a dream of her mother, Katherine, that Vivian’s father, T.B., helped to make a reality.

For many years T.B. ran a newspaper. Katherine backed him from the early days when he was the only reporter, and both of them printed