‘I don’t understand why you aren’t in the mountains or woods with the rest of the men.’
‘My job is to keep my ear to the ground, to liaise with you and to grow the network. I’m not a leader of a fighting unit, I’m a co-ordinator. My leg –’ He glanced down.
If Maxine was honest, she’d forgotten about his leg injury despite the limp and the walking stick he carried. ‘You really do have an injury?’
He nodded. ‘I thought you’d never ask. Though you will have noticed that when in private it does seem to recover somewhat.’
She laughed. ‘So, what are you going to cook for me?’
‘Spaghetti al pomodoro. I thought we’d do it together. Here,’ he passed her a brown paper bag. ‘You can chop the tomatoes. Unless you’d rather crush the garlic?’
‘No, that’s fine.’
He handed her a knife and they both bent over a small wooden table that wobbled constantly.
‘You like cooking?’ he asked her.
She shook her head. ‘Not my thing.’
He gasped in mock horror. ‘Better keep that quiet or everyone will know you are not a true Italian woman.’
‘And you? Do you think I’m a true Italian woman?’
He put down his knife, then leant across the table to kiss her, the table wobbling frantically.
‘I’ll show you what kind of Italian woman I think you are.’
She laughed and pulled back, despite the fact her legs had turned to jelly. ‘Let’s cook. I’m starving.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
They finished chopping and he put on a pot of water to boil, then heated the oil in a pan. ‘It’s important not to let it bubble or smoke,’ he said as he added the crushed garlic cloves followed by the tomatoes and salt. ‘It will take about twelve minutes.’
‘Twelve minutes. How exact you are.’
‘Indeed. Now make yourself useful and pass those herbs,’ he said, pointing at another brown paper bag.
She passed the bag and he took out five basil leaves.
‘And the spaghetti?’
He salted the large pot of now boiling water and added the pasta. While it was cooking, he came over to stand behind her, then he kissed the back of her neck while running a palm over her breasts. She felt her nipples harden and pushed against him as he continued to tease her.
He laughed and went back to the stove. ‘Right, it’s al dente.’ He removed the pasta from the water and added it to the pan to finish cooking in the warm sauce along with the basil leaves.
‘Smells wonderful,’ she said, although now she was itching to tear his clothes off and forget about the food.
‘Really, the sauce should be milled,’ he said. ‘But I don’t have a mill.’
By the time they’d finished eating, sitting on the sofa with plates on their laps, she was grinning at him, her turn to tease. ‘Maybe I should go now?’
‘Don’t you dare.’
He took their plates to the sink, then held out his hand and led her to the bed where he first undressed her and then himself. The sex just got better and better and Maxine could not imagine a time when this wonderful man would not be in her life. After they were done, they lay wrapped in each other’s arms.
‘What was the best time of your life, Marco?’ she asked, her eyes unfocused and sleepy.
‘Apart from just now?’ He nibbled her ear and she felt a stirring in her body all over again.
‘Seriously.’
‘I think the most magical time was when my little nephew was born.’
‘I didn’t know you liked kids so much.’
He pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure if I do or if I don’t. I like that kid.’
‘But you want children of your own?’
He sighed. ‘I know I once said I did. I don’t know though. When you lose someone you love – I mean really love – you lose not only them, but the part of yourself that loved them. There’s a hole.’
‘You’re talking about your brother?’
He nodded. ‘I think I might be too scared of feeling like that again if I had children. What about you?’
‘Children?’
‘No, when was the best time of your life?’
‘I had an amazing time in London before I came here.’
‘And the worst?’
‘When I found out my father was hitting my mother.’ Suddenly she felt her eyes heat up and the tears beginning to form as she recalled the sudden shocking loss of the man she’d thought her father had been. She tried to stop the tears, embarrassed to be crying in front of him, but they just fell faster and faster until she was sobbing, gulping, trembling. He held her close, murmuring soothing words and stroking her cheeks until the tears began to ebb.
‘Oh, my love,’ he said as he handed her a handkerchief. ‘Don’t worry, it’s clean.’
A few minutes passed then she sniffed, wiped her eyes and face and smiled, feeling a lot lighter for letting go of the sadness she’d been holding on to far too long. She felt warmer inside too, especially now that he had called her his love. The connection between them had become more intimate than ever and the spontaneous ease between them made her feel as if there was no war beyond these four walls.
‘Guess what?’ she said. ‘You smell of garlic and basil.’
‘I do?’
‘But I don’t care because you, signore, are a damn fine cook.’
He kissed her eyelids then made love to her again.
Afterwards, she told him more about her family.
‘My mother was brought up, like most women, to serve her man. She brought me up the same way and I sometimes wonder, if I hadn’t found out what was really going on between them, would I have turned out like her?’
‘Somehow I doubt it.’
‘It was never my thing to defer to men or to rely on charming them to get what I wanted. Of course, I can do all that but, if I’m honest, I’ve always been too outspoken.’
‘Not to mention bold, brave, courageous, as I said before.’
She smiled. ‘It got me into trouble at school though, and out of school for that matter. Some men seem to hate a determined woman. They just want to hush you up, make you smaller.’
‘They’re scared. Determined women threaten them.’
‘And you? Do I threaten you?’
He laughed. ‘As if … No, my dear, dear Maxine, never change. I like you just the way you are.’
42.
March 1944
Sofia was clinging on for dear life as Maxine bumped along the dirt roads all the way to her parents’ village in the region of Rapolano Terme. When they stopped at the foot of the hill, she took out a flask of water and a sandwich to share. Despite all her worries, Carla, bless her, had managed to squirrel away a few slices of salami for them. As she took a bite, she glanced around at the stunningly beautiful day. With spring coming up fast, the fields were emerald green and a few low-lying silvery clouds floated in the sapphire sky. Winter had done with them. At last. The light today was crystal-clear and everything shone. As the sun gently warmed her arms and fresh air filled her lungs, Sofia felt hopeful. The final section of the tree-lined track up to the village of Santa Cecilia was heavily potholed so they decided to walk, glancing back at the views over the surrounding land now and then, and finally reaching an imposing gate set into a stone wall, topped by a coat of arms.
Maxine was unusually quiet, and Sofia understood that for her this was one of those special moments in life when words would be an intrusion. The gate wasn’t locked and as they entered the tiny village and cautiously started to look around it felt uncannily silent. All they could hear were the birds.
‘Do you think the Germans have gone?’ Maxine asked eventually.
‘I don’t know. You’d expect to see their vehicles, wouldn’t you?’
They walked on under stone arches and along narrow streets and into shady alleys. When they arrived at the manor house, Sofia couldn’t help herself and whispered that she wanted to pee
k through the ground-floor windows, arched in a row along one wall.
As they drew closer, the place looked deserted. Sofia put her nose to the filthy glass, glimpsing damp walls, broken plaster, piles of rubbish and upended furniture. The many marble pillars looked as if they needed a good scrub and the frescoed walls were in poor health. Turning round, she saw the gate to the formal garden was hanging off its hinges and, as they slipped into the garden, they found the weeds had taken over. Plants had run rampant and the stone pathways were green with moss and lichen. It felt like an enchanted garden in which you might catch sight of nymphs dancing in the sunlight. The Germans could only have arrived here last September, so not long enough for this amount of damage, but then Sofia remembered the family had by then already decamped to Siena, which also explained the neglect.
They were starting to make their way out to head back towards the centre of the village when they heard an imperious voice.
‘Exactly what do you think you’re doing in my garden? You do realize you are trespassing?’
They turned to see an elderly, silver-haired woman, dressed head to toe in black, who stood, hands on hips, by the broken gate.
Sofia walked towards the woman. ‘I’m so sorry. The gate was open. I used to come here before … Oh, it’s you.’
‘Are we acquainted?’ the woman said, shading her eyes from the sun and squinting at Sofia.
‘I’m Sofia de’ Corsi … from Castello de’ Corsi. I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize you at first, but you must be Valentina.’
The woman gave a half-smile. ‘I am, but what are you doing here?’
Sofia indicated her companion. ‘This is my friend, Maxine. She’s come to see the village where her family came from. They had to move away.’
‘She is Italian?’
‘Yes, I am,’ Maxine piped up.
‘Your accent is a little different,’ Valentina said with a frown. ‘What is your family name?’
‘Caprioni.’
Valentina smiled now. ‘How lovely. Was your father the one who looked after the goats? You know, with that name. We used to have such a wonderful herd.’
‘He was a farmer, actually. My grandfather might well have been a goatherd though. My mother worked here at the house.’
‘And her name?’
‘Luisa.’
‘My memory is not so good these days, but the name sounds familiar. Something happened, I think … Why not go to the little café in the square. Someone may remember.’
‘It’s open?’ Maxine asked. ‘The café?’
‘We thought the Germans were here,’ Sofia added.
The old lady pulled a scornful face. ‘They’ve only just gone … left the place a wreck. People keep to themselves, those who stayed, and some are still lying low. We did not enjoy sharing our beautiful Santa Cecilia with those foreigners. Best speak to Greta at the café. Try knocking if she isn’t open.’
‘Thank you. I’m so sorry to intrude.’
‘I would invite you in, but this is the first time I’ve stepped inside since they left. I’m living in a village house now.’
‘Will your family return from Siena?’
‘Not until after the war.’
‘Is the estate manager around?’
‘He fled when the Germans came. He had been very outspoken against the Fascists, joined the Communists, I understand, so it wasn’t safe for him here.’
‘And what about you? Have you been safe?’ It was a loaded question and Sofia wondered whether the old lady would even reply.
Valentina paused then gave her a dry look. ‘If you are asking if I support the Fascists, the answer is I do not. But I do know how to keep my mouth shut.’
Sofia smiled at her and they took their leave to head for the main square.
‘What do you think she meant by something happened?’ Maxine asked.
Sofia didn’t know what to say, so opted for silence.
The only indication that the place they found was a café was a single wrought-iron table with two mismatched chairs sitting outside it. When Maxine tried the door it was locked, so they did as Valentina advised and knocked. For a few moments nothing happened, but then the door swung open and a diminutive woman of about forty, wearing an enormous apron, stepped out.
‘You want home-made beer? Or grain coffee?’
‘Do you have lemonade?’
She shook her head.
‘Two grain coffees, please.’
She pointed at the table. ‘Sit.’
They sat and waited, glancing around at the square. The villagers must have decided there was nothing to fear from Sofia and Maxine for the place was no longer deserted. Three ancient women in black had huddled together for a gossip in one corner, and on one of four iron benches in the middle a white-haired old man snoozed, his chin on his chest, while a child who, Sofia reckoned, had to be his grandson, played around his ankles.
When the Greta woman brought out the coffee, Maxine asked if she knew anything about a family called Caprioni who had left in 1910.
The woman frowned. ‘I was only a child. You need to ask him.’ She pointed at the old man.
Maxine was all set to get up right away.
‘Let’s finish our coffees, pay and then go over and ask him.’
But Maxine still stood up, impatiently. ‘You finish yours. I’m going to speak to him now.’
Sofia watched her walk over and sit on the bench. As the old man didn’t stir Maxine began to play peek-a-boo with the little boy. The child’s giggles woke the grandfather, and he raised a deeply wrinkled, nut-brown face to look at Maxine. Sofia paid Greta and walked over to join them.
Surprised to see someone else on the bench with him, the old man narrowed his eyes and then spoke with a strong guttural accent, a countryman through and through. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. My name is Maxine and I’m trying to find anyone who might have known my parents.’
‘Speak up, girl,’ he said. ‘You want to find your parents, you say?’
‘No. I’m trying to find anyone who may have known my parents. They left here in 1910.’
‘Well, why didn’t you say?’
Maxine scratched her ear, clearly wondering if she’d get any sense out of him.
‘Their name?’ he asked.
‘Caprioni.’
The old boy visibly paled as he gazed at her. ‘You are Alessandro’s daughter?’
She gave him a warm smile. ‘I am.’
The old boy clutched hold of her hand. ‘Your father was my dearest friend. I never expected to hear of him again.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Oh yes, I was older than he was, but we always got on. I worked on his father’s farm and also when it became his farm too. Oh, my dear, the way they left … such a bad business.’
Maxine looked perplexed. ‘What happened? I assumed they left because the family had grown too big and the land could not support so many.’
‘They told you that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know about little Matteo?’
Maxine frowned. ‘Who?’
‘He was a little boy, their firstborn.’
Maxine looked puzzled. ‘I think you must be mistaken. They never had a child called Matteo.’
‘Before you were born. Curly blond hair. A cherub. They worshipped that boy.’ His voice deepened and Sofia noticed the catch in it that signified the holding of pain.
‘What happened to him?’ she asked, and he looked at her as if he’d only just noticed that she was also there.
‘Shot dead.’
Maxine gasped. ‘I had a brother who was shot? How? Why? Was it an accident?’
‘He said it was an accident. We all knew it was not.’
‘Someone meant to kill him?’ Maxine asked, wide-eyed with shock.
The old boy shrugged. ‘Who knows. Maybe he meant to wound him. Only three years old, little Matteo. A tragedy.’
‘Why did it ha
ppen? Who shot him?’
‘All in good time. It happened behind the barn on your father’s farm. The man claimed he was out to shoot a hare and at the wrong moment the boy ran out.’
‘The man raised the alarm?’
He shook his head. ‘Bastard should have done. No. It was your mother heard the shot and found your brother.’
‘Dead?’
‘Died a little later. Loss of blood.’
‘And that’s why they left?’
‘It broke them. She wept for weeks. Inconsolable she was and it became impossible for them to stay. Your mother knew Alessandro would kill the man if they did, so they set off for America instead.’
‘But, if it really was intentional, why would the man want to shoot a child?’
‘Revenge.’
‘Dio santo, revenge for what?’
‘A family feud. Got out of hand. Not sure what. Something to do with an argument over cattle. Who stole what I cannot say but afterwards the trouble began.’
‘And this man killed a child for that?’
The old man shrugged again.
Maxine stared at the ground for a moment, then gazed up at Sofia with such sorrow in her eyes, Sofia’s eyes watered too. It was as if the energy had drained out of Maxine, and Sofia saw a very different woman from the one she had grown to know so well.
‘Let’s go,’ Sofia said, and gently took her hand.
Maxine rose to her feet and thanked the old man, then very slowly they made their way towards the gates.
‘Give my regards to Alessandro,’ he called after them.
Maxine didn’t reply, so Sofia turned and gave him a little wave.
They walked through the old gates and down the hill in silence until they reached the motorcycle.
‘None of it was true,’ Maxine said, looking back up to the isolated little village. ‘The wonderful life they told me they’d had here. None of it was true.’
‘It may have been … before.’
‘They never said a word. Not a word.’
‘It would have been devastating. Maybe they wanted to leave such a terrible tragedy in the past.’
‘It explains a lot about how they are.’
‘Do you want to tell me?’
The Tuscan Contessa Page 23