by Nancy Carson
‘The light?’ he interjected.
‘If you say so … But the people as well, John. Most are as poor as church mice but they are still so generous with what little they have, and so hospitable.’
‘And the food doesn’t disagree with you?’
‘I love the food. You know I do.’
‘Even that sausage you had yesterday, made with donkey meat?’
‘What sausage? Oh, I wish you hadn’t told me that. I’ll never eat sausage again.’
He laughed. ‘It’s not in all sausage. Only certain sausage from the north – from Tuscany, I think.’
‘So what about you?’ she asked. ‘What else besides the quality of the light would make you want to stay here?’
‘The pleasing lack of French impressionist painters.’
‘And you don’t like the French, do you?’
‘I don’t like impressionism – all those dots … And it’s nothing to do with Fernanda’s husband, if that’s what you’re thinking. Although he did muck about with that impressionist stuff.’
The sun’s insidious journey across the sky had left Daisy bathed in sunshine.
‘I’m getting hot. I shall look like a farm worker if my skin gets tanned. Shall we have a drink at that caffè? It’s still in the shade, look.’
‘Give me five minutes. I just want to put the finishing touches to this.’
Presently, John left his easel where it stood, with the painting still upon it, and his colours lying on his folding stool. He took Daisy’s hand. The owner of the caffè was a tallish man in his mid-thirties with sparkling blue eyes and a moustache that swirled at the ends and made him look exceedingly dashing. As soon as he saw Daisy sitting at one of his tables his eyes lit up and he made his way towards her purposefully, the very essence of Neapolitan charm. Daisy asked for orange juice and John ordered a glass of white wine. He returned to deliver both drinks to their table and his smile for Daisy lingered warmly as he asked if they would like to eat.
‘Bruschetta and salami for me,’ John replied.
‘Is the salami made with the meat from a donkey?’
Daisy’s attempt at the question in Italian was stilted, so John rephrased it, explaining that she was English.
The Italian roared with laughter. He leaned back and yelled into the kitchen, ‘Concetta, is the donkey still out the back?… Si? … Well, my donkey hasn’t gone missing, signora.’
Daisy laughed with embarrassment and hid her face to hide her blushes.
‘I assure you, only the finest pork goes into our salami. No donkey meat.’
‘Very well, I’ll have salami and bruschetta too.’
‘Very good. And you may stop blushing now,’ the caffè owner teased her with a broad grin.
He quickly brought their food and, when John ordered more drinks, he dallied at their table. He introduced his wife, a handsome-looking young woman with hair the colour of burnt sienna and eyes to match, whom Daisy estimated to be in her mid-twenties. She and an assistant attended to other customers, from time to time stopping by to join the conversation her husband was conducting.
‘So, you are from England. How long have you been in Italy?’
‘Since last November.’ John explained. ‘We have been living in Rome. We are visiting the Bay of Naples for a couple of weeks. The problem is, we like it so much here I think we want to stay. I can just as easily work here as in Rome. I am an artist, you see. I paint.’
‘You paint? Oh, si, si. I did not know there were any English artists. I thought all artists were Italian.’
John smiled tolerantly.
‘Are you a good artist?’
‘Only Raphael is better,’ Daisy proclaimed, again in her limited Italian. ‘But that’s his opinion, not mine.’
‘Oh, splendid! Your wife believes you are better than Raphael!’ He laughed good-naturedly. ‘What a wife to praise her husband so. What is your name, signora?’
‘Daisy.’
‘Daisy … Daisy …’ He allowed the word to swirl around his mouth, savouring the sound of it. ‘And yours, signore?’
‘John.’
‘May I call you Gianni?’
‘Of course.’
‘I am Pasquale. My wife is Concetta. I would like to see some of your work, Gianni.’
‘If we find somewhere to live close by you could see masses of it,’ John answered.
The man threw his arms out in an expansive Italian gesture, suddenly serious. ‘I have a house. You can live in it. The rent is very cheap to an English artist.’
‘You have a vacant house?’ Daisy queried. ‘Near to here?’
‘You want to see it? I can take you. See if you like it.’
John turned to Daisy and said in English. ‘It’d be a good idea to rent first to see if we really take to the area.’ Then in Italian, he said, ‘Yes we’d like to see this house. Is it far?’
‘About half an hour from here.’
‘Do we walk there?’
‘We can go part of the way in my cart.’ He looked at Daisy mischievously. ‘It’s a happy coincidence that my donkey did not end up in the salami … since we need him to pull the cart now.’
Daisy chuckled and John left to fetch his painting from the terrace.
‘You are a very beautiful English woman,’ Pasquale said while John was out of earshot. ‘Such skin as you have is made for stroking.’
‘Thank you, Pasquale,’ she answered. ‘John already makes quite an occupation of it.’
He laughed aloud at her candour. ‘I am very glad to hear it. Otherwise it would be such a waste. Do you have children?’
Daisy smiled and shook her head.
‘But you will. Soon.’
‘Soon enough, I daresay.’ She blushed at his directness. ‘And you? Do you and Concetta have children?’
‘We have a young son. His name is Alberto. He is with my wife’s mother today.’
John returned with his painting and his equipment, which Pasquale invited him to leave at the caffè for safe keeping. The three of them then trooped across the garden. The donkey had been standing in the shade with its nose in a trough. Pasquale hitched it up to his antiquated cart and invited them to jump aboard.
After weaving through narrow cobbled streets they crossed the main road that wound its twisting way high above the Tyrrhenian Sea, through the peninsula to Amalfi and Ravello.
‘Your wife’s name,’ John said to Pasquale. ‘Concetta … It sounds Spanish.’
‘It is of Spanish origin. But the Spanish ruled this part of Italy for three centuries. It is not surprising they left some legacy.’
‘How old is your son?’ Daisy asked.
‘He is nearly three years old. Maybe it’s time we had more children. But in a morning my wife is keen to get out of bed and put her silkworms next to me for warmth, before I have the chance to make another baby.’
‘Silkworms?’
‘Yes. Every May she takes the seeds and tends them as if they were children. They are most precious. She wraps them in fine linen and puts them in our bed to keep them warm. Not a breath of breeze is allowed to flurry them. When the seeds are hatched they are fed on fresh mulberry leaves. They are better looked after than me. We have a whole room taken up by trays of these hatched silkworms, all eating mulberry leaves. You wouldn’t believe the quantity they eat. But it’s women’s work, Gianni, breeding silkworms.’
They began a steep ascent inland and Pasquale stepped down from the cart. John did likewise.
‘It is kinder to my donkey if we walk now. But not you, Daisy. You must stay on the cart so that your legs don’t grow too big from all this climbing steep hills. Gianni will thank me for that,’ he added with a wink to John.
By this time they were travelling along a winding mule track with limestone walls on each side. Behind, lush vines clung to rough wooden pergolas among the lemon trees on the stepped hillsides. They passed smallholdings, one after the other, in various states of disrepair, but the delicate scent
of lemons was all-pervading. Goats and mules grazed on anything they could get their tongues around in the heat of the day. Chickens flapped lazily and small lizards scattered in all directions out of the way of the travellers.
‘This track is called Via Montecorbo,’ said Pasquale after they had travelled some distance, climbing higher and higher. ‘Eventually it would take us to the town of Massa Lubrense.’ He pointed to his left. ‘That track leads to the house of my sister and brother-in-law … And this track to my right leads to the house of my father-in-law.’
‘It’s good that you all live so close,’ Daisy commented.
‘Oh, si … And up that hill is where I live with my Concetta and Alberto … Now … the house that is empty … is just here on the left …’
He stopped the cart. Daisy stepped down and looked about her. A gate set in a limestone arch was the only evidence of the house. Pasquale opened it and they walked together up a steep path in the cool shade of an olive grove through which a gentle breeze wafted, rustling the leaves. Vines grew in abundance as they did everywhere, clothing the rough-hewn pergolas in a dense green coat and already bearing tiny bunches of grapes. Then the house came into view, high on the hill. It was a two-storey affair constructed of limestone and did not look in exceptional condition, but it had a magnificent view across the Bay of Naples. Its roof was of red clay tiles, typical of the region. A tiled patio abutted the house, shaded by a pergola of vines which cast a dappled shade that danced to the rustle of a light breeze blowing from the south-west.
‘Here is paradiso, eh? I will show you inside. It is very spacious.’
After entering through a heavy wooden door that was not locked, Pasquale led them into a large room. The stone walls had been whitewashed and needed doing again, but it was quite habitable. A primitive wooden table, which Pasquale referred to as a madia and used for making pasta, had four chairs already set around it. In one corner was a stone fireplace with a chain extending up the chimney, from which hung a copper pot. Pasquale made the comment that it could be cold and damp up here in winter. Alongside the fireplace, and also built of stone, was what Pasquale referred to as a fornello a carbone, a charcoal-burning stove.
The solitary window looked south-west towards Capri – the first full view they had had of the island. Beneath the window was a stone sink that emptied through a pipe to the outside world.
‘Who lived here before?’ Daisy asked.
‘My mother,’ Pasquale replied solemnly, making the sign of the cross. ‘She died a year ago.’
Daisy expressed her regret as they followed him outside, in order to get upstairs by way of the stone staircase that ran up the side of the building. There were two rooms, beamed and raftered, divided by a thin plastered partition. The front bedroom opened onto a wooden balcony. John and Daisy stepped out onto it together. Below, to their left, Capri’s sheer cliffs were thrusting up from the sea in two distinct areas, like the two visible humps of a partially submerged camel. Straight ahead, but at a much greater distance, lay Ischia with its less spectacular topography. To the right of Ischia the plain of Naples rose gently to blend with the cone of Vesuvius. Surely, this was the most outstanding view in all the world.
‘I think I could happily wake up to this every morning,’ Daisy commented in English and John heard the catch of longing in her voice. ‘Oh, John, I think it’s perfect. Can we have it?’
‘But we haven’t seen it all yet.’
‘We don’t need to. I just know it’s ideal for us. As Pasquale says, it’s paradise.’
He smiled with deep affection. ‘First let’s see how much rent he expects us to pay.’
Reluctantly, she nodded her agreement and they followed Pasquale across the dusty wooden floorboards into the back bedroom. From there, he marched them back down the stone steps to another room at the side of the house. It turned out to be a type of outhouse and in it was a collection of old tools, a stack of wine barrels and a rack of old, empty wine bottles. From hooks in the wall hung other tools; a scythe, a rake, a triangular spade with a long handle, an axe. In a corner stood an old wine press.
‘Now I’ll show you the palazzo,’ Pasquale said with a gleam in his eye and led them to a small, roofless, stone-built construction that stood in the shade of an orange tree at one end of the plot. He pushed the door open and its hinges creaked in protest.
‘The privy!’ Daisy chuckled, at which Pasquale smiled.
Pasquale led them away and they stood either side of him in the garden. ‘I myself have tended these vines … They will yield a good harvest. Naturally, the wine from the grapes that grow here would be yours. Also, the olives. You would need plenty of olive oil to cook with and as fuel for your lamps.’
‘We rather like this place, Pasquale,’ John said. ‘I think we would like to rent it. You would have no objection to us renovating it to our liking?’
‘It needs some work, I agree. But it’s not a problem.’
‘Where would we get our water?’ Daisy enquired.
‘From the roof. It is collected during rainfall and stored in a cistern.’
They came to an arrangement on the rent that suited both.
‘When would you like to take occupation?’ Pasquale asked.
‘First we shall have to return to Rome to wind up our affairs and arrange for our belongings to be brought here … Can we say the thirty-first of May?’
‘Of course. When you arrive I will introduce you to the rest of your neighbours.’
‘Mostly your family, it seems,’ John commented.
The Italian laughed. ‘Si. My family and my wife’s family.’
Back in Rome, all arrangements had been made to leave the Villa Strohl-Fern. Their belongings had been packed up and a carter was due to collect them the following day for onward transmission to Naples.
John had had an idea for a new painting. Daisy was posing with a bowl in her left hand, her right arm outstretched, supposedly dropping crumbs into an ornamental fish pond.
‘How long before I can rest, Gianni?’ she asked. She had taken to the Italian version of his name as used by Pasquale, and John did not object in the least. ‘My arm’s aching, holding this bowl out so long.’
‘Rest now if you’re tired, my love.’ He put down his blacklead and stretched. ‘Now is as good a time as any … We’ll have a drink and then I want to take you somewhere.’
‘Oh? Somewhere nice, you mean?’
‘Somewhere rather special.’
‘Somewhere far to walk?’
‘Somewhere close by, actually.’
‘Tell me.’
He chuckled. ‘No. You’ll very likely think me mad. You’ll see when we get there.’
‘I’m intrigued … In the meantime, what do you want to drink?’
‘Some tea, I think.’
‘I’ll make some. Then I’ll get changed if we’re going out.’
‘Wear something very special,’ he called as she went inside.
After sorting through what was not already packed, she reappeared in a high-necked cream-coloured blouse in light cotton and a matching skirt, her dark hair piled up on her head beneath a straw boater.
‘Oh, very elegant.’
Hand in hand, they left the grounds of the Villa Strohl-Fern and, within minutes, were walking across the Piazzale Flaminio towards the Piazza del Popolo.
‘Here …’ He pointed. ‘This is where we are going. This church. Santa Maria del Popolo.’
It looked nothing from the outside; just a whitewashed baroque façade that, compared to the splendid architecture that surrounded it, seemed insignificant.
‘This church was designed by Raphael, whom you insist is inferior to me.’
‘Well, this is nothing to shout about, is it?’
But, when she saw inside, Daisy gasped, her breath taken away not only by the beauty of the place but also the quietness and cool sanctity. They were all alone in there, and her footsteps on the stone flags and marble memorial slabs echoed through
the nave, many times amplified.
‘This place is a treasure-trove of masterpieces,’ John whispered reverently. ‘I came here the other day on my way to the bank. I thought you should see it before we leave for Naples.’
‘It’s magnificent, Gianni. It makes me want to cry.’
He smiled at that. ‘Beauty should never make you cry. Beauty should always be uplifting.’
‘But once you’ve experienced something like this it breaks your heart to let go of it. And yet we must. It’s even more beautiful than St Peter’s basilica.’
‘Here, look at this painting …’ He stopped at a side chapel and pointed. ‘It’s by Caravaggio. The Crucifixion of Saint Peter.’ John stared at the painting for what seemed ages, then stood for another age admiring another Caravaggio, The Conversion of St Paul. ‘It’s amazing how, in so many of these churches, you come across masterpieces as if they are nothing.’
Daisy wandered into another annex, another chapel, one of the many commissioned by illustrious families and decorated in appropriate splendour. It could so easily have been the setting for one of John’s paintings with the sweep of its intricately carved marble arch and the niches in which stood exquisite statues.
‘That statue is by Bernini, who designed St Peter’s Square,’ John whispered when he had caught up with her. ‘The other, there, is by Lorenzetto. Masterpieces all. Absolute masterpieces.’
‘I’ve never heard of Lorenz—who?’ she said.
‘Lorenzetto. Well, I’ll forgive you.’ He looked into her eyes and took her hand. His face bore an earnest expression and she could tell that something was on his mind.
‘What is it, Gianni?’
‘Come and sit over here …’ He led her to a pew nearer the altar and they sat down. ‘You are going to think me utterly stupid … but forgive me, Daisy my love. I have to do this …’
Tears welled in his eyes and she was moved to weep herself as she watched him intently. He had evidently reached some crisis of emotion and was about to tell her of a decision he had made that would radically affect her. At once her heart began beating faster with apprehension.
He took both her hands in his as he sat beside her. ‘I am so afraid of losing you, Daisy …’