The Tuscan Child

by Rhys Bowen

  He positioned the lit candle back inside the lantern, then he held it up to examine the damage. The small light threw out long shadows on to newly fallen masonry. The walls were still standing, although there were now gaping holes in them. The rubble on the floor had shifted, and the whole floor now lay at an angle.

  Sofia stood up. “I hope it’s still solid enough to walk on.” She took a few steps, then she stopped. “Gesù Maria!” she exclaimed.

  “What is it?” He hauled himself to his feet.

  “Look here.”

  He made his way over to where she was pointing. On the floor, against the side wall of the chapel, a gaping hole had now opened up and a flight of steps went down into darkness.

  “There must be a crypt of some sort,” Hugo said. “Did you ever visit it?”

  “No. I only came here once for a feast day,” she said. “We did not have much to do with the monks. They were shut away from real life up here.”

  “Until the Germans turned them out and they found out exactly what real life is all about,” he added.

  “Should we go down and explore?” she asked. “It may be dry and snug down there for you.”

  Hugo was loath to go down into that rectangle of blackness. Cold, thick air crept up from it, and he smelled musty dampness. “I think we should wait until daylight,” he said. “We don’t know how stable it is down there. The whole ceiling might be about to come down.”

  “I will return in the morning if I can get away,” she said. “I will tell them I need to check on my turnip fields. The harvest may be this week. And besides, it is the day after the feast. Everyone will sleep late.”

  “All right.” He found he was smiling in anticipation at seeing her again so soon, although he didn’t share her enthusiasm for exploring some old cellar. “You should go home now then so that you get some sleep. Be very careful as you make your way to the door. The floor may no longer be solid.”

  “I will take great care,” she said. “And I will be impatient to return so that we can find what lies beneath us. Is it a treasure trove, do you think?”

  “I doubt it. I expect your monks were simple men. I have certainly found no gold vessels or ruby rings as I have searched the rubble outside. And their bowls and plates were of crude pottery.”

  “All the same,” Sofia said, “it is exciting, is it not?”

  “Yes,” he agreed, wanting her finally to have something to look forward to. “It is exciting.”

  Hugo found it hard to sleep for the rest of the night. He was conscious of lying in an unstable place that could collapse at any moment and wondered if he should move outside. But the bitterly cold wind swirling around the ruins did not make that seem an enticing prospect. He sat up, wishing desperately for a cigarette. Instead he found the flask and swigged at the grappa. It warmed him but did nothing to dull his anxious mood. He fought against sleep and was glad when the first streaks of morning appeared over the eastern wall.

  Hugo waited until it was completely light, then picked his way around the outer wall and made it safely to the front entrance. He saw then that the bomb had not landed directly on the damaged building. It had struck the hillside, cutting out a chunk of soil and rock so that the monastery now perched at the edge of a precipice. At least no German lorries can drive up from the road anymore, he thought. The flight of steps was unharmed.

  He washed, had a long drink of water, and then returned to the chapel. He stood for a long time at the entrance to the crypt. Sofia was right—it was enticing, but at the same time alarming. A cold draft crept up from it, although Hugo couldn’t imagine where a draft could be coming from deep within the earth.

  He was still standing and staring when Sofia arrived out of breath and with glowing cheeks. “There is a stiff wind today,” she said. “It was hard to walk up the hill. And see, I have pulled up one of my turnips. We will wash it and then you can eat it.”

  “Raw turnip?” He made a face.

  “Oh, but yes. It will taste good. Crisp and refreshing.” She put it on a fallen beam. “Have you been down there yet?”

  “No, I waited for you. I wanted to make the discovery together.”

  “I brought another candle,” she said. “It will be very dark down there.” She gave him an excited grin. “Are you ready? I am so curious about what we shall find.”

  “Probably a basement where the monks stored their old prayer books and habits and unwanted furniture,” Hugo said.

  “But no. It is below a chapel. There may be the tomb of a saint. Or holy relics. I have seen the head of Saint Catherine in the cathedral in Siena.”

  “Only her head? What happened to the rest of her? Was she beheaded?”

  “No, her head was taken off after she died and put into a gold and crystal case. It is still miraculously preserved for all to see. It grants miracles.”

  “Poor Saint Catherine,” he said. “I’m glad I’m never going to be a saint. I wouldn’t want my head cut off after death.”

  This made her laugh. She went to slap him, then thought better of it, the intimacy of the prior night forgotten. “Your lighter, please.” She lit the candle. “I will go first and see if the steps are safe.”

  “Be careful,” he called, but she was already descending into darkness.

  “It is good,” she said. “The steps are not too steep and they are fairly clear. You can hold on to the wall as you descend. Come slowly.”

  He followed her, taking one step at a time, feeling the solid coldness of the stone wall against his palm. He heard her gasp but was focusing so completely on not tumbling and making his splinted leg hold his weight that he didn’t look up until he reached the bottom. He let out a sigh of relief and looked up. Then he saw what had made her gasp.

  It was a perfect little chapel with a carved and vaulted ceiling. Lining the walls were what looked like tombs—of long-dead monks, presumably. At the base of the steps lay several thick slabs of masonry. Sofia was holding up the candle, trying to get its light to reach the far corners. At the far end was an altar on which stood a tall and very realistic crucifix. There were saints in niches, and on the walls hung several big paintings.

  “This is why the Germans never looted this chapel,” Sofia said, shining the candlelight on the thick blocks of stone around the steps. “See. This must have blocked the staircase from above, and now it has fallen. Perhaps this chapel has not been used for centuries. Or perhaps the monks had a secret entrance from their other buildings.” She went ahead of him, gazing up at the walls. “Look at this!” Sofia held up the candle to one of the paintings. “Is it not lovely? It shows the three wise men coming to visit the baby Jesus.” She moved on. “And over here is Saint Sebastian, poor man.”

  Hugo turned away from the latter. He could see it was painted by a master, but the image of the corpse tied to a post and shot full of arrows was just too graphic.

  “They must be very old,” Sofia said.

  “Yes. Renaissance,” Hugo said. “I wonder if they are signed. The magi painting looks like the work of il Perugino.”

  “Would that not be amazing? Works of the masters right here, and we are the only ones who know about them.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Amazing.”

  Instinctively she put her hand on his arm, looked up at him, and smiled. “I am so glad we are sharing this moment together.”

  He wanted desperately to take her in his arms and kiss her, but he merely returned her smile. They continued around the wall, Sofia examining each tomb and reading out the Latin for him to translate. “Albertus Maximus, prior, 1681 to 1696,” he said of one of the inscriptions.

  “You are such an educated man,” she said. “You know Latin.”

  “We had seven years of it rammed down our throats at school,” he said. “But your Mass is in Latin. And you speak Italian, which is very close.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t listen to what the priest says,” she said. “When Father Filippo gives me the absolution after confession, I hav
e no idea if he’s saying I am forgiven or I am going to hell.”

  “Have you told him about your visits to me?”

  She hesitated. “Not really. Only that I found you and helped you once. Not that I come every day and feed you. Because it is not a sin, is it? Jesus said to feed the hungry and welcome the stranger, and I am doing both.”

  “Quite right.” He started to move on.

  “Look at this,” he called to Sofia, pausing at a small door recessed into the wall. “You were right. There is another way into the crypt. Those stairs have probably been blocked for ages.”

  “Try it. See where it leads.” She reached for the handle before he did. She jiggled it but it didn’t move. “It’s locked,” she said in disappointment. “Who knows where it might lead?”

  “Wherever it led is now only rubble,” he said, and started to move away. Sofia stayed staring at the door, as if willing it to open, then she sighed and came to join Hugo. At the back of the chapel was an intricately carved stone screen and behind it a small side chapel with an altar, still laid with an altar cloth and a prie-dieu before it. Above the altar was another painting. Sofia held up the candle, and this time they both gasped. It was a small painting in a gilt frame. The subject was an expected one: baby Jesus in the arms of his mother. But it was quite unlike any Renaissance painting Hugo had seen before. Instead of the stylised child, often proportioned like an adult and with an expressionless, rather mature face, this was a true baby. He had a round face topped with a mass of golden curls. His little face was alight with joy as he reached out chubby hands toward two adorable cherubs, their tiny wings fluttering as they hovered just out of his reach, almost as if they were teasing him.

  It was Sofia who spoke first. “Oh, what a beautiful boy,” she said. “Isn’t he the most beautiful boy you ever saw?”

  “Yes.” Hugo could hardly make the word come out, his throat was so constricted with emotion. “This is the most amazing rendition of Madonna and child I have ever seen. In some ways it is so modern, with the use of light and the realism. But you know, I’m wondering if it might even be Leonardo. The Virgin’s face has that wonderful serenity to it of The Virgin of the Rocks.”

  “Leonardo da Vinci?” Sofia was whispering, too.

  “It could be.”

  “Then we must take good care of it. We must make sure the Germans never find it.”

  “Yes, we must,” he agreed. “Could you maybe take it to your house and hide it in the attic?”

  She looked horrified. “It is not mine to take. And what if the Germans decide to search the village and it is found? Then it will be lost forever. No, better to try and hide it here. Who would want to come here now when it is just a ruin?”

  “All the same,” he said, thinking as he stared at the picture. “Perhaps we should block off the steps again and hide them.”

  “But you should stay down here. It is dry and warmer than up above, and you will have the beautiful boy’s face watching over you while you sleep. We would have good warning if the Germans were coming, and you can think of a good place to hide the painting. Saint Sebastian over there they can have!”

  He laughed at this. “Yes, I find him quite gruesome.”

  “So you will stay down here now, no?” she asked. “You will be warmer and blessed by all these holy saints and by the Child Jesus.”

  “I will try sleeping down here,” he said. “The wind has been so cold lately.”

  “I will bring down your things for you.”

  “No need. I can come up and carry them down one by one. I can throw down the blanket.”

  “I do not want you to risk a fall. I can do it. You stay below and catch.”

  She put down the candle on one of the monk’s tombs, then picked up her long skirt and ran lightly up the stairs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  JOANNA

  June 1973

  I studied the town on the hill as we walked. Yes, it did seem there was a way down the wall from close to Sofia’s house. An agile person could have climbed out of a window, made their way along the top of the wall, and then come down into the vineyards without too much chance of being observed. I remembered Renzo saying that his mother had left with her basket to forage in the woodland. My gaze went through the vineyards and then up through the olive groves to the woods that crowned the hilltop. Beyond them a rocky outcropping topped with an ancient ruin rose above the trees. I stopped to stare at it. It was little more than a pile of rubble, and it was hard to tell what had once been a building and what was part of the rocks themselves.

  I thought of Sofia and her basket. Would it have been possible to hide someone up there?

  “That old ruin,” I said. “Was it a castle once?”

  “A monastery,” Paola said. “I remember the monks there when I was a child. Such a beautiful chapel it had.”

  “When you were a child?” I blurted out the words. “It was still a monastery when you were a child?”

  “Oh yes. Until it was bombed in the war.”

  “The Germans bombed a monastery?” I asked, horrified.

  “No, not the Germans. The Allies. The Americans, I think.”

  “They bombed a monastery? That’s terrible. Was it by mistake?”

  “Oh no. The Germans had turned out the monks and used that site for their big guns. It commanded a good view of the road in the valley and also of aircraft flying overhead. So of course the Allies had to take it out. Such a shame to destroy a holy site like that, but they had no choice, did they? In those days it was kill or be killed.”

  I was still staring, trying to picture those remnants of standing walls as a once-beautiful monastery. It would have been simple enough to have hidden anyone up there, but surely they would not have been sheltered from the elements among those rocks. Still, it was somewhere I needed to check out for myself. But not that day!

  Paola paused and sniffed the air. “We should hurry. Thunder is not far off,” she said, and quickened her pace. We were still a good way from Paola’s house when we heard the first distant rumble. The wind swirled around us, suddenly cold and fierce. The heavens opened and the rain came. We were drenched within a minute and arrived home looking like drowned rats.

  “Oh, Mamma,” Angelina cried as she met us in the hallway. “Look at you! I was worried when I heard the thunder.”

  “We are just a little wet, my darling, but nothing that dry clothes and a good glass of grappa won’t heal.” She put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Go and put on dry clothes, Joanna, then we shall hang your dress inside the bathroom and it will soon be dry.”

  “All right,” I said. It was a daunting prospect. It was raining so hard that the drops pinged loudly on the tile roof and bounced up where they hit the ground. I sprinted across the garden along a path that was now a series of puddles. I reached my little house, lifted the latch, and let myself in with a sigh of relief. As I closed the door behind me, I froze—surely I had locked my door when we left early that morning. Surely I couldn’t have been careless enough . . . and yes, the key was still in my purse. Then I remembered Renzo saying that nobody in San Salvatore locked their front doors. There must have been an extra key hanging in Sofia’s house—easy to find.

  Maybe I’m worrying for nothing, I thought. Perhaps Angelina had needed something from this little house—there were spare linens in the big wardrobe. But also perhaps someone had used the knowledge that we were all at the festival to see if my room could be searched. It could have been the Carabinieri. Or not. I opened a drawer carefully. Yes, my clothes had been moved. I retrieved my spare shoes and found that the things Gianni had sent me were still hidden in the toe. So the searcher had not done a very good job, had he? Or he had found the things but saw no need to disturb them, letting me think that I was still safe. An alarming thought. I checked my other possessions, but nothing else was missing. And of course the incriminating letter, along with my passport and wallet, was safely with me in my handbag. So somebody might know wha
t Gianni wanted to talk to me about. But they would also know that he never reached me and that I probably would not be able to interpret those three objects.

  I collected some dry clothes, wrapped them in a towel, and ran back to the farmhouse.

  Warm and dry and after a glass of grappa, I was feeling better. After the feast we were not hungry and had a simple meal of leftover soup and bread. I made sure my door was locked when I went to bed. I lay there listening to the storm moving off until the growls of thunder receded into the distance.

  The next morning I awoke to the more familiar bright blue sky. The air smelled fresh and the colours were so brilliant after the rain that I had to shade my eyes to stare out across the countryside. Paola announced at breakfast that she had to work on her vegetables. She’d noticed that the insects had been having a feast. If the aubergines were ripe, she’d make an aubergine Parmesan for dinner.

  “I suppose I had better see if the inspector from Lucca has made up his mind about whether I am free to go,” I said.

  “Oh.” Paola’s face fell. “So soon? You wish to go so soon? Just when I have found another daughter?”

  “I’m really liking it here,” I said. “But I need to know that the police don’t consider me a suspect in the death of Gianni. And I should be returning home soon. I have to get back to my studies.”

  “But you will stay at least a week,” she said.

  That fact struck me with surprise. Had I been here less than a week? It felt as if I had lived here for a long time.

  “Oh, of course. At least a week,” I said.

  “How can I teach you to cook Tuscan food if you run away so quickly?” She put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “And I need to fatten you up. You need meat on these bones or you will never find a husband.”

  “Perhaps she already has a man in mind, Mamma,” Angelina said, looking up from where she was breastfeeding the baby.

  “Is that right? There is a young man waiting?” Paola asked.

  I shook my head. “No young man waiting.”

  “Of course. You need to pass those exams first. When you are a rich lawyer you’ll have men lining up to marry you,” Paola said.