The Italian Matchmaker

by Santa Montefiore

  As they filed past, Luca noticed the eyes of the woman who walked in front. They were disarmingly light against the rich brown of her skin and hair. She shifted her gaze for a second and looked at him, her expression unchanging. Only the apples of her cheeks flushed to betray her surprise. Luca nodded, copying those around him who knew the ritual by heart. She continued to walk slowly, settling her gaze on the statue that held so much hope and expectation.

  The three women took their places in the front pew. The priest and the little choirboy stood before the altar. There were no hymns, no music, only the inaudible prayers of the hopeful congregants who never tired of the ceremony, returning every year, their optimism refreshed.

  Ma squinted but could only see a very blurred statue. ‘Has he bled yet?’ she hissed into Caradoc’s ear.

  The old man shook his head. ‘My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on; Judge not the play before the play is done.’

  ‘Oh my, how the good Lord takes His time,’ she grumbled.

  ‘And tests our faith,’ Caradoc replied.

  They all waited for twenty minutes, after which the congregation gave a collective sigh. The miracle hadn’t happened. Christ’s eyes remained dry. The bell began to toll, shoulders were shrugged, a few old people wept, the children began to giggle and shuffle from one foot to the other.

  Suddenly, there was a loud sob, the hurried tapping of shoes on stone, and the flurry of material as Cosima ran down the aisle and out of the church. Everyone stared, a murmur rising from the pews. Luca watched the little boy follow his mother, his face taut with anxiety, his hands gripping the feather. As he passed, he held Luca’s eyes for a long moment, as if trying to communicate something. Luca could almost hear a cry for help.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Ma in a voice of doom. ‘She’s taken it very badly.’

  ‘The widow,’ said Caradoc. ‘Luca’s got his eye on her.’

  ‘That heart will be impossible to win.’

  ‘Nothing a man likes more than a challenge.’

  ‘Nothing a man hates more than losing,’ Ma added pessimisticaly. ‘Now what do we do?’

  ‘Go home, I suppose,’ said Caradoc.

  ‘I wonder what’s for supper.’

  The procession of women walked slowly back up the aisle and out of the church, the priest and the choirboy close behind. The bell tolled dolefully but the musicians were ready to pick up their instruments and play in the square. Rosa wasn’t going to let Cosima spoil the party, though she knew Alba would run after her as she always did. She wondered whether the handsome Englishman would stay to dance and whether she’d manage to speak to him with Eugenio present.

  Luca felt flat with anticlimax. He was about to ask the professor whether he wanted to stay or return to the palazzo for dinner, when a cold gust of wind swept up the aisle, and there was the little boy with the feather standing in the doorway, red-faced and out of breath, searching the sea of faces. When he saw Luca, he began to scream at the top of his voice: ‘Help! Mamma is in the water. Help! Please!’

  Luca was right beside him, hurrying out of the church. ‘Take me to her!’ he commanded.

  They ran through the square, ignoring the surprised look on the faces of the priest and the three parenti di Santa Benedetta. The little boy ran nimbly down the cobbles to the quay, from where Luca could just make out a figure wading out to sea in the moonlight. He threw off his shoes and jacket and ran after her, striding through the water as fast as he could. ‘Cosima!’ he shouted. At first she ignored him, as if in a trance. When he shouted louder, she accelerated her pace until her head disappeared beneath the waves. Luca began to swim, trying to locate where she had gone down. Then he saw an arm rise above the water as her instinct struggled to hold on to life. With a monumental effort he managed to grab it. There was a brief struggle and then she went limp.

  Luca pulled her up and manoeuvred her on to her back so that he could hold her in the crook of his arm, her head resting on his shoulder. He swam back towards the shore until he could feel the stones beneath his feet. Then he took her in his arms and carried her out of the water. No one had followed him in spite of the child’s pleas. Hastily, he placed Cosima on the stones and put his ear to her breast to check her heart. It was still beating, but she was not breathing. He tried to resuscitate her, pounding her chest and pumping oxygen into her lungs. Her lips were cold and salty, her body lifeless. He’d never forgive himself if the boy lost his mother because he was unable to save her.

  At last, her body jerked as it expelled water from her lungs. She gasped and inhaled a gulp of air, opened her eyes and stared at him in bewilderment. Luca mumbled a few words of encouragement. He needed to get her somewhere warm. Hastily, he covered her with his jacket and lifted her into his arms. He struggled to hold on to her wet body, limp as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Gritting his teeth with determination, he set off towards the square. He looked around for the little boy, but he must have gone to the piazza to get help. Luca could hear the music from the party and the cheerful voices of the locals as they compensated for the disappointment of the ceremony.

  He held Cosima against him, trying to keep her warm; her breath encouraged him to stagger on. Finally, he reached the square. ‘Somebody help!’ he cried. People turned, their faces registering horror as he walked towards them bearing one of their own, wet and lifeless. The music stopped, the dancing ceased, the crowd flocked around him like a herd of curious cattle. People crossed themselves as he passed, believing her dead.

  Alba rushed forward. ‘Cosima!’ she cried as Luca laid her gently on the ground. ‘Is she . . . ?’

  ‘She’s alive,’ Luca replied, catching his breath. ‘But she was trying to drown herself.’

  ‘Oh my God! Panfilo!’ she shouted. Panfilo was right beside her, taking off his jacket to place across the girl. ‘I should have known this would happen,’ Alba moaned.

  ‘We have to get her home, quickly,’ said Panfilo, taking control. ‘To the car!’ He lifted her up in his strong arms and waded through the throng that parted reverently.

  Alba turned to Luca. ‘You saved her life. How did you know?’

  ‘The little boy.’

  ‘What little boy?’

  ‘You didn’t see the little boy in the church, screaming for help?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I presumed he was her son.’

  She stared at him for a long moment then touched his arm. ‘Cosima has no son. Francesco died three years ago. Drowned. He was six years old.’

  11

  Luca watched Alba disappear through the crowd. He was bewildered. The little boy followed Cosima everywhere. How come Alba hadn’t heard him screaming for help? The whole church must have heard. He searched for Ma and Caradoc while the townspeople stared at him as if he were an alien.

  ‘There you are!’ Ma emerged from the sea of faces. ‘What on earth is going on? You’re soaking wet!’

  ‘You’re a hero, young man,’ said Caradoc.

  ‘You look like you need a strong drink,’ added Ma. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Did you see the little boy?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The child with Cosima, screaming for help.’

  Ma stared at him blankly.

  The professor chuckled. ‘I think you need a hot bath and a hot toddy.’

  ‘Wait!’ Luca felt light-headed. ‘Are you telling me that you didn’t see the little boy come into the church and shout for help?’ They shook their heads, looking at him askance. ‘You didn’t see him chase after the woman leaving the church in a hurry? Come on! You must have seen him?’ He turned to the professor. ‘Am I going mad? A little boy told me to save his mother. So I ran down to the sea and found her wading out, determined to drown herself. I swam after her and rescued her. I did not do that on my own. How could I have known if the little boy hadn’t told me?’

  ‘This is most baffling,’ said Caradoc, leaning on his stick. ‘But I’m afraid the only one who saw the little bo
y was you.’

  ‘I thought he was Cosima’s son,’ he said in a thin voice. ‘Maybe she’s not a widow, after all.’

  As they went back down to the quay to retrieve Luca’s shoes and find the car, Rosa appeared, flustered and close to tears. ‘Luca,’ she cried, stopping him in his tracks.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said as she began to cry.

  ‘She’s alive. That’s all that matters. I want to thank you. You saved her life.’

  ‘Why does she want to commit suicide?’

  ‘I feel so bad. I’ve been so unkind. I didn’t realise how unhappy she is. I didn’t believe her. I thought she was just wanting attention.’ Rosa took a deep breath. ‘Her son, Francesco, was drowned three years ago. She blames herself, because she was with him. One minute he was beside her and the next he was in the sea. Cosima can’t swim. There was nothing she could do. She’s never got over it.’

  ‘Where’s her husband?’

  ‘She’s never married.’ She shuddered. ‘We’re all she has.’

  ‘So who is the little boy who follows her around?’

  ‘My son, Alessandro,’ Rosa replied.

  ‘The one with the feather who cried for help?’ Luca asked, relieved that he wasn’t losing his mind after all.

  Rosa looked confused. ‘No. My son was with me all the time tonight. I didn’t see anyone cry for help.’

  ‘For God’s sake, he shouted so loudly they must have heard him in Naples.’

  Rosa flinched at his raised voice. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said sheepishly.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m obviously the only person who saw him. I’m going mad, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, thank you. On behalf of all my family, thank you for saving her life.’

  Once again they all squeezed into the little car and set off for the palazzo. Ma and Caradoc were thrilled with Luca’s heroism. The evening would have been an anticlimax had Cosima not chosen to throw herself into the sea. The drama had given them both a new lease of life and they couldn’t wait to get back to tell the others. But while they chatted, Luca’s mind was elsewhere. Was he losing his mind? Or was it something altogether darker?

  Back at the palazzo, Luca helped Caradoc and Ma out of the car. ‘Who’d have thought you’d turn out to be a knight in shining armour? There are precious few heroes these days, Luca, but you deserve a medal for what you did tonight. I’m going to tell your mother myself.’ Ma patted his shoulder. ‘You’d better go and change before you catch a cold.’

  ‘See the conquering hero comes! Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!’ sang the professor as Luca handed him his walking stick. Ma gave him her arm, waited a moment while he shook out his legs, then led him through the great doors of the palazzo. Luca fled upstairs to his room.

  He stood under the shower enjoying the warm water as it pounded his skin and trying to block out his fears. Trying not to think about his childhood and the voices that had spoken to him in the night, the people he had seen, wandering about his room in the dark. His mother had told him ghosts didn’t exist and that if he continued to talk about them she’d send him to a hospital for mentally ill children. After that, he hadn’t mentioned them again. He had believed it was all in his head. He had shut them out until finally they had gone. If he was the only one to see the boy, did that mean they were coming back?

  He dressed in a daze. How was it possible to feel the fear of a child when he was a man in his forties? He walked out on to his balcony and gazed across the ocean. Beneath the moon the water shone silver like mercury. He thought of Cosima and her little boy and his fear turned to compassion. Her pain was so great she had tried to end it all. She wouldn’t thank him for saving her life. She had wanted to be with her son. But if the little boy was indeed her son, he too had wanted to save her. Luca knew he couldn’t tell her what he had seen; she’d think him crazy. Everyone would think him crazy. He couldn’t tell anyone.

  He heard laughter down below where his mother presided over dinner on the terrace. Caradoc and Ma were obviously telling the story. The table listened, enraptured, their features illuminated by the flickering light of the hurricane lamps. He hoped they wouldn’t mention the little boy. He’d shrug it off, make something up. He had shut them out once before, he was damned if they were going to come back.

  His stomach rumbled with hunger and he was in dire need of a stiff drink. He would have preferred to eat on his own, but the palazzo didn’t offer room service. Reluctantly he went downstairs. When he appeared on the terrace the table cheered and raised their glasses.

  ‘Darling, I’m so proud of you!’ his mother gushed, tears in her eyes.

  ‘Have a glass of Taurasi,’ his father said, reaching for the bottle.

  ‘You look better now,’ said Ma, turning to the rest of the table. ‘He looked very pale. I thought he was going to faint. He was the only one in that entire church who rushed to her aid.’

  ‘Who is she?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Is she pretty?’ asked Dizzy.

  Ma rolled her eyes. ‘She’s tragic and beautiful. If she’d been ugly he wouldn’t have bothered.’ Everyone laughed, except Luca.

  ‘She’s called Cosima,’ he said, feeling a warm sensation as the wine reached his belly. ‘Her son drowned in the sea three years ago. She was trying to commit suicide.’

  Dizzy gasped. ‘Oh, my God! I can’t understand why anyone could do such a thing!’

  ‘To be saved by a handsome stranger, of course,’ said Ma sarcastically.

  ‘I think you should pay the family a visit, Luca,’ said Caradoc, thinking of the pretty cousin in the red dress.

  ‘Of course!’ agreed Romina. ‘You must go and see them, darling. They will want to thank you.’

  ‘They have already thanked me. But she’ll hate me for having ruined her plans. It’s only a matter of time before she does it again.’

  ‘Then you have to tell her about the little boy,’ said Ma. Everyone turned to Luca.

  ‘What little boy?’ Romina asked. ‘You haven’t told us about a little boy.’

  ‘There was no little boy.’ Luca drained his glass. ‘I was confused. I was wet and cold.’

  The professor was wise enough not to pursue it. ‘Let them come to you if they want to thank you,’ he said instead. ‘I guarantee you, they will.’

  When the others retired to bed, Luca went for a walk along the beach. On his return, as he approached the folly, he heard the sound of footsteps in the undergrowth. He knew it wasn’t his father and it certainly wasn’t Ma or Caradoc. He smiled at the thought of Maxwell and Dizzy making up after their quarrel, stealing into the folly for a bit of nuggy bunny in that large four-poster bed, surrounded by erotic pictures and literature. He dismissed the idea at once. They seemed as passionate as a couple of jellyfish.

  Although the moon was high, the shadows were dark and impenetrable. There was a crackling noise, then silence. He stood still, his heart thumping in his chest. Perhaps it was an animal, maybe a deer. He strained his ears, but heard nothing except the breeze rustling the leaves and the chirping of crickets. He sensed he was being watched, that whoever it was was aware of him and waiting for him to make a move.

  Eventually, he was left with no choice but to take a step. When no sound came, he realised he must have been imagining the whole thing, and walked the remainder of the path to the folly. After all, at six feet four with wide shoulders and a body that had been honed by daily work-outs, he needn’t be afraid of anything.

  Just as he reached the little portico of the folly a startled rabbit leaped out of the bushes into his path, before disappearing into the undergrowth. Luca took a deep breath, relieved. He tried the door, but it was locked. He shook his head and smiled wryly at his own stupidity. His mother had the only key. The episode at the festa must have shaken him up if he was imagining spirits in the shadows. He thrust his hands into his pockets and walked back to the palazzo.

  That night he slept deeply with no intrusions. When he awoke to the dawn
flooding the corners of the room, he wondered whether the events of the previous day had really happened. He got up and stretched, casting his eyes over the benign sea. The sky was clear and bright, the air infused with the smell of honeysuckle and lavender, the merry twittering of birds resonating across the gardens. He could see his mother practising her yoga on the terrace while a gardener watered the terracotta pots and borders with a hosepipe. He dismissed thoughts of the little boy and Cosima as if they had been part of a nightmare from which he had now awoken.

  He breakfasted with his mother and Dizzy while Porci lay on the stones, his fat belly rising and falling as he slept. Smidge trotted around on her dainty little toes, avoiding Porci, whom she considered inferior on every level. Ventura came out with hot bread, fresh coffee and brioches. In the centre of the table was a bowl of pomegranates and peaches, from which Dizzy helped herself, avoiding the tasty crescenti which were damaging to her figure. Luca was starving, and sent Ventura off to make scrambled eggs, which he’d eat on toast with prosciutto.

  The professor emerged in a cream linen jacket, Panama hat on his head, with Ma one step behind him in a long purple kaftan. ‘Good morning, my friends,’ he said jovially. ‘Something smells good over here.’

  ‘Darling Professor, come and sit down.’ Romina patted the chair beside her. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Like the dead.’

  ‘The dead don’t sleep in this place,’ grumbled Ma. ‘I could have sworn I heard footsteps up and down the corridor all night. I haven’t slept a wink.’

  Romina tutted. ‘That was probably Bill, he wanders about when he can’t sleep.’

  ‘Well, he has a very heavy tread,’ said Ma grumpily.

  Luca remembered the footsteps at the folly and wondered whether there had, indeed, been an intruder in the night.

  ‘Strange things happen in Incantellaria,’ he said as Ventura put a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him.

  ‘Well, there was no sign of blood on Jesus’ marble face,’ said the professor.