The Tuscan Child

by Rhys Bowen

  “What do you know of the war?” one of them bellowed. “You were just a child. We were off fighting. We can tell her what the war was like.”

  “I was a child, yes, but I ran errands. I took messages for the partisans. I saw much,” Gianni said. “You would be interested, I think, Signorina.”

  “You and your tall tales.” Alberto shoved him aside and took my arm to lead me away from the group.

  “That Gianni, he is full of hot air,” Alberto said to me. “You must take anything he says with a pinch of salt, Signorina. In the wartime he ran messages, but they were more likely to be for the black market dealers than the partisans. No partisan would have trusted him with an important message. He’d have blabbed about it to the wrong people and squealed to the Germans if they had questioned him.”

  We walked then in silence across the piazza and through the tunnel. I suspected that he was now tongue-tied and perhaps was already wondering what the shrewish wife would say about being seen with a young lady. On the other side of the tunnel we emerged into the last of the pink twilight. Bats were flitting and swooping silently across our path, attacking the mosquitoes that now hummed around us. We reached the path to Paola’s front door.

  “Here we are, Signorina,” Alberto said. “May I wish you a good appetite for your evening meal and a good sleep.” He gave a quaintly old-fashioned bow and then strode off down the path that led to the valley.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  HUGO

  December 1944

  In the middle of the night Hugo awoke with teeth chattering. His whole body was shivering and shaking. He sat up and felt around for Guido’s shirt that he had stuffed into the parachute bag under his head. It took him a while to extricate it, take off his bomber jacket, then put the shirt on. It smelled of damp sheep but was actually nicely dry. By the time he got the jacket on again he could not control the shaking. He tried to huddle himself into a ball, but it was impossible with his splinted leg.

  The shaking finally ceased, leaving him exhausted and drenched with sweat. It was all he could do to stop himself from tearing off his leather jacket. He passed into black dreams. He was flying and was surrounded by mosquitoes trying to bite him. Then the mosquitoes turned into German planes, tiny vicious planes zooming around his head as he batted at them ineffectively.

  “Go away!” he shouted into the darkness. “Leave me alone.”

  Then the planes turned into fluid, flying creatures and they left him, swooping across a red sky to where Sofia was walking through the olive groves. And they descended on her, grabbing at her shawl and her dress, trying to lift her up.

  “No! Not Sofia!” He was screaming now, struggling to stand up and run to her. But his legs had turned to jelly and collapsed under him. He watched helplessly as they lifted her up and bore her away into the darkness.

  “Sofia!” he cried out in despair. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

  “Sono qui. I am here,” said a quiet voice beside him. Someone was stroking his hair.

  He opened his eyes with difficulty. It was day, and a watery sun was peeping over the jagged edge of the chapel wall. His head was still pounding and he had difficulty focusing, but gradually he could make out Sofia’s sweet little elfin face looking down at him with concern.

  “You were shouting,” she said.

  “Was I? I was dreaming, I think.”

  She knelt beside him. “And your forehead is so hot. You have a bad fever. I am afraid your wound has become infected. Let me see.”

  He was too weak to stop her as she unbuckled his belt and eased down his trousers.

  “Your clothing is wet with sweat,” she said, shaking her head. Carefully she inched off his makeshift bandage, then shook her head some more. “You need a doctor. This looks very bad.” She stared at his leg, chewing on her lip like a nervous child, trying to make up her mind.

  “I think Dr. Martini is a good man . . . He was good to Renzo when he caught measles.”

  “No doctor,” Hugo said. “It is a risk we should not take. At the very least he would be seen coming up here.”

  “That is true.” She nodded. “But if we do not bring a doctor, I think you might die.”

  “So be it,” he said. “I would rather die than risk your life any more.”

  She took his hand. “You are a brave man, Ugo. I hope your wife appreciates what a good and kind man you are.”

  Even in his fever this made him smile. He didn’t think that Brenda would ever describe him as brave, good, or kind. But then at home he had been a different person: arrogant, selfish, playing at the lord of the manor.

  “I will do my best for you,” she said. “Let us try this and see if it can disinfect the wound.” She took the small bottle of grappa. “Good. You have not drunk it all.”

  She ripped a strip from the old sheet, then soaked it in the grappa. He screamed in pain as she washed the wound, then was ashamed of himself and bit into his lip to stop from screaming again.

  “I have done my best,” she said. “It seems to be clean. Of course I do not know what it is like inside or if the bullet has damaged some blood vessel. We can only hope.”

  He watched as she made a pad of clean linen then bound it to his leg.

  “You have no more morphine?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid not. Just the one syringe, and I used that.”

  “No more medicines?”

  He examined the first aid kit. There were a couple of small sticking plasters, big enough for a cut on the finger, and a strip of aspirins.

  “I have these.”

  “Aspirin. They will help take your fever down. That is good. But you should not become too cold.” She reached up inside his jacket. “Your shirt is quite wet, too, but I do not think we should try to remove it. Let us pull up your trousers quickly and then I will wrap you in your blanket and the parachute.”

  She eased his trousers over the wound with great care, then up over his hips in a businesslike manner. Then she went to get water and held his head as he sipped it and swallowed four aspirin.

  “And I have brought you more of the bean soup,” she said. “You need nourishment. Can you eat a little?”

  She took the covering from the basin and held him propped up against her as she fed him. He tried a few mouthfuls, then fell back against her, exhausted.

  “You must eat. You must stay strong,” she said.

  “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  She got up then, easing him back against his pillow. “I will go back to the village and see what medicines they have at the pharmacy that I can ask for without causing suspicion. Alcohol for your wound, that will be no problem. I have used all the grappa. I do not think they will give me a sulpha drug without a prescription, but I can try. I’ll tell them that Renzo has a sore throat. It is true that he does, but only with a cold. Nothing serious. Then I will try to come back tonight.”

  “You are so good to me,” he said. “If this stupid war is ever over and I reach my home, I will try to make it up to you. I will send your son to a good school. Buy you more goats. Whatever you want.”

  “Let us not talk of the future,” she said, giving him a sad smile. “Who knows what it may bring. We are all in the hands of God and the holy saints.”

  Then she tucked him in as if he was a little child, wrapping the parachute around him. “Rest now.” She stood up. “See. I leave you water to drink, and the rest of the soup, if you can try to eat it. I think you should try.” She wagged a finger at him, making him smile.

  “Very well. I will try.”

  As she walked away, he wondered if it would be the last time he would see her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  JOANNA

  June 1973

  Paola had clearly been waiting for me. She looked relieved when she opened the front door. “Oh, Signorina Langley, mia cara. There you are. I was worried that something had happened to you. I said to Angelina that you surely would not want to be out alone in the dark. What would you
be doing?”

  “I am so sorry, Signora,” I said. “I talked to the men who sit in the piazza, and they insisted that I join them for a glass of wine. Then they ordered bruschetta and it would have been rude to refuse. I told them I was eating dinner at your house, but they said you would not eat until very late.”

  Paola laughed. “It is no problem, my little one. I was merely concerned for your safety. Not that I think you run the risk of being unsafe in this village, but there are dark alleyways where you can trip and hurt yourself. Now come, sit. The dinner awaits us.”

  I followed her down the hall and was ushered into a dining room, this time with a table elegantly set with candles on it. Angelina was already there. The baby slept in its cradle at her feet.

  “You see, Mamma, I told you she would be safe,” Angelina said. “She is a girl from London, from a big city. She knows how to take care of herself and watch out for danger.”

  I laughed. “I did have to say no when the man called Gianni offered to take me home,” I said. “I thought he was a little too friendly.”

  Paola shrugged. “He is all talk, that one. No real harm in him, at least not to the ladies. If you had become amorous, he would have run a mile.”

  Angelina laughed, too. “But in his business dealings, well, sometimes he does like to play with fire,” she said.

  “We don’t know that,” Paola said. “It is only rumours.”

  “It is what they say in the village,” Angelina replied. “They say he is friendly with those who might be Mafiosi. They say he might trade in stolen goods. And then there is the olive press . . .”

  “Olive press?” I asked.

  Angelina nodded. “The only olive press for the whole community is owned by Cosimo. Did you meet Cosimo?”

  “I did. He looked rather . . .” I didn’t have the Italian word for “imposing.”

  “He is powerful,” Paola said. “Rich and powerful. A dangerous man to cross. He owns the only olive press, and he lets those he likes or to whom he owes favours get the best times to press their olives. If he does not like you—if you refuse to sell your trees to him, like me—then you find that your time to press olives is at two o’clock in the morning.”

  “Does the press run day and night?”

  “It does. In the picking season, the sooner the olives are pressed, the better. So each person wants time at Cosimo’s press.”

  “So what was Gianni doing that might anger Cosimo?” I asked.

  “He still has olive trees, over beyond the old monastery. Cosimo has never liked him, and he always gives Gianni the worst times. Sometimes he makes him wait for days. So Gianni was trying to get together with some of the local farmers to set up a co-op and build their own olive press. I don’t know how far he has come with this idea, but of course Cosimo would be angry if anyone tried to go against him.”

  “Gianni is a fool,” Angelina said. “He likes to talk big. But if it came to a showdown with Cosimo, he would run away with his tail between his legs.”

  While we talked Paola carried in dishes and placed them in front of us. “Asparagus from the garden,” she said. “It is asparagus season. Such a short time that we make the most of it and eat asparagus at almost every meal.”

  She placed a dish of white stalks in front of me, then drizzled them with olive oil and grated Parmesan cheese over them from a big block. I had eaten asparagus before—certainly not often, as it was a delicacy in England—but it had tasted nothing like this. Each mouthful was heavenly, the sharpness of the cheese contrasting with the sweetness of the vegetable.

  After we had finished this course, Angelina cleared away the plates and returned carrying a big tureen. When Paola took off the lid, the herby aroma filled the room. She served me a generous portion, much bigger than I would have liked, but it would have been rude to refuse. “Here we are—the pici you and I made this afternoon and the rabbit ragu. Enjoy.”

  And I did enjoy. Somehow I seemed to find room to clear my plate. There was just enough of the rabbit in the sauce to flavour it, but it was the herbs and tomatoes that made it so delicious. I resolved to learn about herbs from Paola before I departed, and if ever I had a garden, I’d grow them myself.

  After the main course had been cleared, biscotti were put on the table along with small glasses of a rich amber liquid. “This is the Vin Santo I told you about,” Paola said. “The holy wine.”

  I looked surprised. “This is really holy wine from the church?”

  She laughed. “This is what we call it. No, it doesn’t come from the church now. There are many stories about the name. Some say it was the style of wine from dried grapes favoured for Mass. But others say there was a holy friar who used the leftover wine from the Eucharist to go around and cure the sick. These days it just tastes good for dessert. This is how you eat the biscotti. You dip and then you eat.”

  Angelina got up. “I’m going to bed, Mamma. I am tired. The little one kept me up most of last night. Please God she sleeps for a while now.”

  Paola gave her a big hug and kisses on both cheeks. Angelina shook my hand, giving me a shy smile. “Tomorrow you must tell me about life in London,” she said, “about the fashions and the music and the movie stars. I want to know everything.”

  “All right.” I returned her smile.

  She picked up the little cradle and carried it from the room. After she had gone Paola leaned closer to me. “It is good to see her animated again,” she said. “For a while after the baby she showed no interest in anything. She was very ill, you know. They had to take the baby early, or she would have died. I thought I would lose her, my only child. But now, thank God and the Blessed Virgin, she is on the road to recovery.”

  She put a hand on my shoulder. “You lost your poor mamma, so you know what it feels like to lose someone you love. After my dear man it would have been more than I could have borne. It’s the very worst thing in the world for a mother to lose her child.”

  I felt tears welling up in my eyes and tried to swallow back a sob. The wine had worn at my defences. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tell somebody and have her arms around me, telling me softly that she understood. But I stopped myself at the last moment. I couldn’t tell even this sweet and kind woman how it felt to have lost my baby.

  “Don’t look so sad,” she said, touching my cheek. “All is well. We are tested and we survive, and life will be good again.”

  With those comforting words I bid her goodnight and went to bed.

  It was only when I was curled up in bed feeling the cool touch of those soft sheets against my cheek that I allowed the tears to come. I might have held them back until now, but I couldn’t any longer. I relived every moment. I remembered my surprise when the doctor told me that I was pregnant. My initial fear was replaced with reassurance. The pregnancy was not planned, and had come sooner than we’d hoped, but Adrian would do the right thing and marry me. I’d put my clerkship with the solicitor on hold, that’s all. But that wasn’t what happened. Adrian had looked scared, then annoyed. “Are you sure? It couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time, could it? We’re both so close to taking our bar exams. Certainly in no position to settle down and start a family.” He paused, a frown spoiling that smoothly handsome face. Then he relaxed again, and gave me a little smile. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It will be all right. I know someone who can take care of it.”

  It took me a while to realise that he wanted me to have an abortion. Shock, horror, revulsion.

  “An abortion? Is that what you are suggesting?”

  Adrian remained so calm. “He’s a good chap. Knows what he’s doing.”

  “Adrian, it’s our baby. How can you be like that?”

  “Oh, come on, Joanna. It’s the nineteen seventies. Women have abortions all the time. It’s no big thing anymore.”

  “It is for the baby,” I said. “And it would be for me. My father would never forgive me if he found out.”

  “Your father has hardly been the most s
upportive man in the universe, has he?” Adrian demanded. “And hopelessly old-fashioned. He can’t even accept our living together, for God’s sake.”

  “All right,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I could never forgive myself. There. I’ve said it. And if you care so little about me . . .”

  “Of course I care about you,” Adrian said. “It’s just that I’m not prepared to wreck two lives for the sake of a baby neither of us wants.” He put a hand on my shoulder then. “You’re still in shock. Think about it and I’m sure you’ll come to see that my way is best.”

  I did think about it. I told myself that in truth there was no other solution. Adrian would keep pressuring me if I stayed with him. He certainly wouldn’t want to share his flat with an unwanted baby that might ruin his precious reputation. And if I moved out? I had no guarantee my father would take me in, and apart from him I had no one. I think the biggest shock was realising that Adrian, my Adrian, who I had thought was my soulmate, my lover, my best friend, was none of the above. He was someone I could no longer rely on. I told myself he was right. We were in no position to start a family. It was only a bit of tissue at this stage, not a baby. But I simply couldn’t do it.

  Strangely enough, it was liberal free spirit Scarlet who was on my side. “Don’t do it if you don’t feel it’s right,” she said. “And don’t stay with that creep Adrian if that’s the way he treats you. You’ve got me. I’ll help you get through it. And I bet your dad will, too, once he gets used to it. Go and see him and tell him. He’ll rant and rave a bit, but then he’ll come around.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “You know what a fuss he made when I moved in with Adrian.”

  “But it’s his only daughter in trouble. It’s my betting he won’t let you down. He’ll want to look after you.”

  I agonised over this. Even if my father forgave me, I could never go and live with him. I imagined Miss Honeywell’s horrified looks and the schoolgirls’ giggles. There didn’t seem to be any way out. I almost relented and went to tell Adrian he was right. Except that I couldn’t.