by Anne Berry
Lorenzo’s grey eyes flick over him with interest. ‘Now we have a smart holiday cottage, rich tourists can come here, spend lots of money and enjoy it as well,’ he adds, stroking his chin in a miserly gesture. Not so very unlike his brother then, Owen ruminates, except that his stall is set up closer to heaven than hell. His eyes dart to the few straggling black wisps sprouting from Lorenzo’s chin – a poor imitation of Enrico’s stunning orange tassel. Naomi seems energized by it all, dashing here and there, admiring the rustic furniture, exclaiming one moment, and firing questions the next. Through the open front door, Owen scans the steep precipices, and traces the looped script of winding road written into the slopes. He would like to leap back into his car and race down them, away from the lake, the lake that is visible from every window, from every walkway. Lorenzo follows his sightline and nods with approval. ‘You like our lake in the mountains. We are another Lombardy up here. They have Lake Como, Maggiore, Lugano, Orta and Garda. We have Lake Vagli. Man-made but even more beautiful, I think. The dam was built to provide hydroelectric power for the mountain people living in Garfagnana. There was a village in the valley, but they flooded it in 1953. Fabbriche di Careggine. The residents relocated but the buildings are still there, under the water, the cottages, the church. Boating, swimming. Yes? I think the tourists will love it.’
Owen gives a weak smile in response and closes the door. They make their way up to the second-floor bedroom, the Italian’s well-built frame dwarfing the narrow passage. Once there, his eyes glide suggestively towards the twin beds, and then back to where his two guests stand before a huge wardrobe. Naomi throws the doors wide, pulls out drawers, and runs her fingers over the smooth dark wood. She is transfixed by the slide of supple skin across the intractable, polished oak.
‘This is the only bedroom,’ Lorenzo says slowly. ‘It’s not a problem?’
‘We’ll manage,’ Owen replies briskly.
Lorenzo winks cheekily. ‘You can always make up the settee downstairs if you prefer it.’
Naomi rotates slowly, taking it all in. ‘I love it,’ she pronounces. She tugs at a fingernail with her canine teeth, and then with the back of a hand smoothes her neck. She chatters happily to Lorenzo about Florence and Pisa, the places she wants to visit. Owen feels excluded. For a moment he becomes the adolescent version of himself, sitting on the back step in the sunshine. His eyes had vacillated between the book in his lap, and his mother talking to Ken Bascombe. He can see her now, leaning on the fence, smoking a cigarette, her cheeks glowing, his mother looking so beautiful and distant. The anguish that parted them has grown up like thorny briars, become increasingly intimidating and impenetrable. Seeing her is more dreadful than not seeing her. Her eyes hold nothing but punishment for him, and a truth so terrible that it must never be told. But he lives with the heavy knowledge. It is simply this: if he had died that day, if it had been him who drowned and not Sarah, his mother could have borne it. She could have buried him and gone on living. His teeth ache with needing her. He is half-made, incomplete, alone on an empty beach with the remote grey tide coming in.
A succession of tinny squeaks rouses him to the present. Naomi is bouncing on her bed, testing the metal springs. ‘In the mountains,’ she says softly, her white teeth snipping crisply around the words, ‘I expect it gets very cold at night.’ And her lips redden with pleasure. She blinks her gummy blink. Suddenly she jumps up and crosses to the window. Lorenzo follows and they stand side by side. Their arms are touching. She pinches back a corner of the closed ecru and mauve cretonne curtains, and peeps out. Leaning over her, he throws them wide. The rings skid along the metal rod with a sharp discord, and instantly the room is floodlit. Owen joins them, flanking her right side, her devious blue-eyed profile. Lorenzo lifts the latch and eases open the window. All three survey the lake. Owen sways on his feet, the vertiginous sensation nearly toppling him. He imagines Teodora sealed under the lid of impermeable black water.
‘When they dammed up the Edron River, they say a village woman stayed in her cottage, that she drowned. Teodora, her name was. They say she haunts the lake still, that if you see her you, too, will drown,’ Lorenzo says with evident relish. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’
Owen gives a nervous splutter of laughter. Naomi smiles at Lorenzo, entranced. ‘Yes, Enrico told us. We will keep our eyes peeled for the phantom of the lake and let you know.’
‘It certainly makes an excellent story for you to . . . to embellish for your . . . your tourist guests,’ Owen falters. Lorenzo chortles, undaunted by Owen’s seeming cynicism.
After he has gone, while Naomi is getting ready for their evening out, Owen stands at the lounge window. He eyes the lake as if it is an invading army and he is a lookout on the battlements of a fortress. Then he scans the mountainous panorama. Night falls fast here. He can see it coming, inexorably blotting out the day. He has a vision. Teodora sitting in her stone cottage combing out her silky black hair, as the water gushes in under the door, then through the windows, and finally rushes down the chimney. In his mind the level rises like a running bath, until her mouth gapes and the torrent rushes in.
At Nerio Gallo’s house that evening, Naomi gets drunk on grappa, and flirts with Lorenzo, and with his bearded father. Owen reddens, because they are not in the market, where the lights are low and cheap things have guile. As they weave their way the few steps home, she slides her arm through his.
‘It’s so quiet here. Aren’t you glad we came?’ Her speech is thick, carrying to him on her alcohol-sodden breath. When he makes no reply she digs her heels in and they stumble to a stop. ‘Did you hear me?’ she slurs from a corner of her mouth. Looking down on her, he nods and thins his lips in a weak smile. The blades of brilliant stars stab the navy-blue arras of the night sky. A biscuit-gold harvest moon finds its double in the lake. The mountains are splashed in party silvers, greys and purples. The salty sausage and the grappa have given Owen a fierce thirst. The planes and hollows of Naomi’s face, exaggerated by the dim light, appear unsettlingly skeletal to him. Her eyes blaze out from cadaverous sockets. Her mascara and eyeliner has smudged, giving a gothic look to her angular face. And her mussed hair, hatted in moonlight, looks white as a barrister’s wig. ‘Well?’ she breathes.
‘Naomi, you’re drunk,’ he observes, aiming for carelessness, but striking a pious chord. ‘We’ll talk in the morning.’
‘But you are pleased we came, that it’s all so pretty?’
‘Yes, yes. I’m pleased,’ he lies.
In bed, Naomi, sinks into boozy slumber instantly. But Owen is wakeful. He sits on the window seat and listens to the window trembling in the breeze. A ray of moonshine, refracted by the glass, shimmies on the ceiling. Lake Vagli glitters under the harvest moon like a slumbering mythical monster. He lifts his eyes and imagines he can see Teodora, a black mermaid beached on the gritty concrete bank. She is a chantress warbling honeyed notes that bring the tears to his eyes. And the wave of her voice rolls away across a universe blistered with uncounted sun, seeded with marbled planets, to break on some unknown shore, sending a ripple through the continuous circle of time.
***
Sunday morning. They are sitting sunning themselves on two deck chairs outside the cottage. Naomi leans forward and pulls off the tunic she is wearing. The fabric, magenta voile, is light as gossamer. She reclines again. Now she is wearing no more than a skimpy black bikini. Her eyes are closed. She has kicked off her sandals, and Owen studies her toes curling against the baked flagstones, relaxing, then curling again, like a contented cat. Each time, the balls of her feet rise a few inches. Her body is open, letting tongues of sunlight lick her flesh. Her only concession to the harmful rays is a pair of sunglasses. Owen, dressed in fawn shorts and a short-sleeved pale-blue shirt, has an engaging Enid Blyton innocence about him. His sandals are firmly strapped on and he is wearing a half-brim cap, but no glasses.
He has just applied sun lotion and there are streaks of it on his arms. One of his eyes itches
and without thinking he rubs it. The lotion, still on his fingers, makes his eye water copiously. The same second the sun, reflecting off one of the gold hinges of her sunglasses, temporarily blinds him. Re-focusing, his vision is indistinct. He squints and makes out what looks like three Lilliputian priests. Then he realizes they are not men but boys, young boys, and there are not three but five, all wearing black cassocks and white surplices. Two of them carry flags, the third, spearheading the little group, a cross. Owen tries to sit up but the canvas back of the deck chair makes it difficult, and he flounders like a beetle on its back.
Following at their heels are the men of the village, most middle-aged, some bent-backed and grey-haired. Many wear suits, ties and even hats. All have made considerable efforts with their appearance. As they pass by their eyes stray to where the newcomers are sunbathing. Naomi’s body holds them for a second but their expressions remain impassive. Owen prods her. She gives a small blissful sigh and wriggles away from him. The flash of a silver lantern draws him back. Now he sees that the life-size priests have arrived, three of them, dressed in long white robes, with short red capes tied at their necks. They form a semi-circle, at its centre a stooped, shrunken, old bishop, carrying a gilded crook. Owen has managed to hoist himself up and he nudges her again.
‘Naomi, sit up. Put your tunic on,’ he hisses. ‘I think it’s some kind of religious festival.’ She sighs, shifts in her chair languidly, lowers her sunglasses and peers over the rim. She looks mildly intrigued but she makes no move towards modesty. He is about to speak again when several more men bearing a plinth round the corner. Crowning it, seated on a silver throne, is the statue of another bishop. Again Owen pushes her. When she does not stir, he retrieves her tunic from the ground and attempts to cloak her spread-eagled body. Only when the band arrives does she rouse herself, a crowd mainly of youngsters dressed in black trousers, blue shirts and military-style caps. They all carry instruments, trumpets, drums and clarinets, and they are playing a solemn processional march.
She swings herself forward on the deck chair and climbs to her feet, the movement executed with considerably more grace than he could muster. The tunic floats off her. She is standing barefoot in her brief bikini. As Owen rises, she takes a couple of steps forwards and casually leans over the wooden railing, gazing at the spectacle on the climbing path. She claps her hands as they pass by, as if the ceremony has been arranged for her benefit alone. And this is how they find her, the women of the village, as they round the bend, bringing up the rear of the parade. One of them, a stout matron wearing a long-sleeved, dark-blue dress, the substantial shelf of her breasts adorned with a plain gold cross and chain, breaks away from the crowd. She strides purposefully up to them. Naomi turns to face her, raises her sunglasses now and smiles unabashed. Owen intercepts, stepping between them.
‘Can I help you?’ he asks, wrapping his own arms uncomfortably about his waist.
‘Your washing,’ says the woman. She has the gimlet-glare of a hawk.
‘I’m sorry?’ he queries, not understanding her meaning. Naomi, leaning back on the railings, lowers her sunglasses and gives a high, mocking laugh.
‘Your washing, it is in full view,’ the woman reiterates with a jut of her chin, looking beyond his shoulder.
He turns and sees their laundry spread out on a wooden rack to dry. There are a few T-shirts but mostly it is a display of Naomi’s lacy pants and a few bras. He feels his cheeks grow hot. Naomi raises her eyes, annoyed. ‘Oh, of course. I’m so sorry, but we didn’t realize,’ he apologizes hastily. ‘We’ll clear them away. Naomi, give me a hand.’ She looks at him rebelliously and lounges further back on the rails. ‘Naomi!’ he presses again through gritted teeth. He starts plucking clothing and underwear off the rack. When he glances up the woman has not budged. She is locked on the indecently clad visitor, her expression transparently hostile. Naomi takes off her sunglasses and meets her withering gaze levelly. The villager seems to wince slightly at the cloven-coloured eyes. Then, like a petulant adolescent, Naomi stoops, retrieves her tunic and slips it on. And all the while the other women, children at their skirts, troop by staring in their direction.
‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about,’ she mutters. She lets her head drop back on her shoulders and scans the sky. Finally she shrugs, pushes off from the railing, skirts her challenger and stalks off into the cottage.
‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ Owen falters. The woman gives a grudging nod. ‘I . . . we never meant to cause offence. We didn’t know it was a . . . a . . .’ He dries up, his mouth arid as ancient bones. For a second she does not move, just holds him in her percipient stare. Then the stern aspect of her face fades suddenly and she nods, appeased. She turns on her heels, head held high, hurrying to catch up with her neighbours. With his bundle of damp washing he hastens after Naomi.
***
Monday. After a breakfast Owen has lost his appetite for, they drive to Lucca and hire bikes. They pedal around the ancient city walls, enjoying their commanding prospect over the surrounding countryside. Half-way round they stop and clamber off to appreciate the panoramic views. The lacy leaves of the plane trees stir in the warm breeze. A horse and cart, loaded with market produce, clops by. Other cyclists pedal past. An elderly couple stroll hand in hand. Proud parents walk their young son between them. Owen and Naomi gaze out over meadows, clusters of dark trees, a sea of brick-red tiled roofs from which towers rise imposingly, and beyond these, as far as the eye can see, a vista of dusky majestic mountains.
‘It’s quite something,’ Owen says. ‘The kind of landscape an artist would want to paint.’
‘You know, I can’t forgive him.’
For a second he is disorientated by her remark, and then the wretched circumstances of this seemingly endless summer break on him. ‘You say that now, but in time—’ he opens hopefully, but she cuts him off smoothly.
‘No, never. I have nothing but contempt for Sean now, for the cruel way he treated me.’ She does not look at him but keeps staring outwards, her voice expressionless. ‘He murdered our baby. He didn’t even consider an alternative.’
Owen sighs softly. ‘Naomi, you must see that it was difficult for all concerned.’ He lays a hand on her arm and exerts a light pressure with his fingers.
She brings her other hand to her mouth and absently flicks a thumbnail and fingernail together. ‘You wouldn’t have behaved like that.’ She casts him a sideways look, her tantalizing eyes suddenly shy. When he reserves comment, she makes it a direct question. ‘Well, would you?’
‘That’s different,’ he dodges.
‘Why?’
‘I’m not married,’ he tells her with a shrug.
‘I don’t believe that you would have acted so callously even if you were,’ she maintains.
‘Who can predict what I would have done?’
She faces him now and their eyes meet. ‘I . . . think . . . I . . . can.’ She pays her words out slowly, making each one count.
He lifts his hand from her arm, opens both out to her, his gesture beseeching. ‘Look, I don’t pretend to understand how appalling this must have been for you. But it’s done, finished with. You ought to try and put it behind you. Going over it will only make it worse.’
‘Why shouldn’t I be part of a family?’ she asks unblinkingly. And Owen feels uneasily as if she is assaying his soul, testing the true mettle of him.
‘No reason at all.’ He takes a breath, attempts to frame a sentence, and fails. ‘You are . . . you . . . are—’
‘What am I, Owen?’ She grabs his hand and holds it in hers.
‘You are a lovely woman and one day you’re bound to meet a man, marry, have children. It’ll work out for you, I’m sure. Have a little patience, that’s all.’ She smiles broadly then, as if he has given her the correct answer in a competition, as if he has won the prize. ‘You are such a gentleman!’ she exclaims, clapping her hands, and she pecks him on the cheek.
They finish their ride, return the bike
s, and wander the old town. There are so many churches, almost too many to count. Naomi keeps suggesting that they push open the heavy doors of one and explore the gloomy interior. But Owen is reluctant. They are not dressed for church. His attire, jeans and a T-shirt, is marginally more suitable than hers. The burgundy skirt she is wearing sits so low on her hips that her belly button is exposed. Without a bra, her breasts are clearly outlined in her tight, powder-grey, sleeveless shirt. He warns her that they are not suitably apparelled each time she runs up a flight of entrance steps, or pauses outside the massive medieval doors.
‘I really don’t think we should go in,’ he advises as he surveys the trickle of locals entering and leaving the basilicas. The women wear long-sleeved, calf-length dresses, their covered heads lowered respectfully; the men, long trousers and shirts buttoned to the collar.
‘Don’t be so silly,’ she admonishes. ‘Why shouldn’t we?’
‘Naomi, there’ll be people praying in there.’
She shakes him off, then huffs out her breath impatiently, making the wisps of hair that overhang her brow stir. ‘I want to pray too,’ she insists obdurately. Before he can stop her, she has grasped the heavy, iron ring-handle of the door she faces. In an instant she has disappeared inside. He hesitates long enough to stand aside for a woman who is leaving. She is fingering a rosary and still mumbling her prayers. Their eyes meet for a second, and Owen has a stab of compunction on Naomi’s behalf.
On entering the huge space, pleasantly cool after the hot streets, the reverential hush is punctured by the smart click, click of Naomi’s heels on the stone floor. He is stealing along a dark corridor to one side of the pews. She is tottering down the central aisle, momentarily illuminated in a shaft of indigo light angling through a stained-glass window. It is late afternoon. There are several people either sitting quietly, or kneeling, hands clasped, lips moving in fervent prayer. He pauses by a tray of tiny cream candles, and watches a man light one with a taper, push a coin in a box, genuflect, and make the sign of the cross. He recalls Catherine and the dampness of her tears on his shirt, and is thinking that he would like to light a candle for her, for her and Bria, when he hears Naomi exclaim: