The Italian Matchmaker

by Santa Montefiore

  She became aware of a shadowy figure at the other end of the beach. She stopped throwing stones and strained her eyes to get a better look. A man, she thought. He looked agitated, though she couldn’t make out his features. For a moment she wondered whether he was going to wade out into the sea like Cosima. She wasn’t about to go in after him and shrank back so he couldn’t see her. He paced a small area, back and forth, his feet in the water. Finally, he walked off towards the little path that wound its way up the cliffs to the palazzo by way of the folly.

  Rosa scrambled to her feet and hurried off in curious pursuit. She knew that path like the back of her hand, every twist and turn, every rise and fall. Taking care not to be seen or heard, she ran stealthily over the stones with the grace of a cat. It seemed that he, too, knew the path well. He didn’t hesitate or stumble, but moved smoothly through the darkness.

  Rosa followed at a safe distance. Her nerves were alert, ready to leap into the undergrowth should he turn around, but he walked on as if in a trance. It seemed that nothing could distract him from his purpose.

  At last he disappeared into the trees. Rosa crept behind a large bush and waited. She heard the scuffle of footsteps around the folly, as if he were looking through the windows to check no one was in there. There was the sound of a key in the lock. She caught her breath, the excitement expanding in her chest. This was her chance to inject her life with a little adventure. After all, Valentina had made her own excitement.

  She could see the warm glow of candlelight around the edges of the shutters, slipping into the darkness to expose the trespasser. So, there was an intruder after all, and he wasn’t a ghost. But who was he and why was he there? Her pulse throbbing in her temples, she put her fingers on the handle and opened the door.

  Cosima slept fitfully, her grief as constant a companion as the memory of her dead son. By day, Luca gave her courage and hope, but by night she was flooded with despair – the sense of falling into an abyss. Luca had tossed her a lifeline, but where would he take her? She couldn’t leave Francesco. Nothing could take her away from Incantellaria, where all her memories lay imbedded in the soil. She would live there until the day she died, with or without Luca.

  As she slipped into a deep sleep, a profound calm released her from the random ramblings of her mind. She was surrounded by whiteness and in that heavenly light she felt the presence of her son. He appeared before her as he had been in life – his eyes wide and smiling, his skin glossy brown, his cheeks the colour of the most perfect sunrise. He burrowed into her body and she wrapped her arms around him. She smelt the milky vanilla of his hair, felt his smooth skin against her lips, the warmth of his body against hers, and for the first time in three years she felt complete.

  Finally, Francesco drew away. He looked at her with the loving eyes of a wise old man. ‘You have to go back.’

  ‘Don’t make me go!’

  ‘You must. It’s not your time.’

  ‘But I want to stay with you,’ she pleaded.

  He smiled as if the idea of them being apart was absurd. ‘You know I’m always with you.’

  ‘But I can’t see you!’

  ‘Trust, Mamma.’ He slowly began to fade. ‘Trust.’

  She reached out to him through the whiteness. ‘I love you, Francesco. Don’t leave me. I can’t live without you. Don’t leave me! Please, come back!’

  ‘It’s all right, darling. You’re having a nightmare.’ Alba was leaning over her in her white nightdress. She looked around in panic. Francesco had gone. Alba stroked her head. ‘It’s okay. You’re awake now.’

  ‘I don’t want to wake up.’ She closed her eyes, willing herself to return to that strange white Heaven.

  ‘It was a dream,’ Alba reassured her.

  ‘No. It was real. He was here. I could feel him, smell him. He was real!’ She began to cry. Alba turned on the light and Cosima winced. ‘Turn it off!’ Alba ignored her and sat on the bed.

  ‘It was Francesco in spirit.’ Cosima gripped Alba’s shoulders and opened her eyes wide. ‘Luca said there was nothing in the world that would enable me to hold him. But he under-estimated my son. Francesco found a way.’

  Alba turned off the light and left Cosima to sleep. The older she got the more convinced she became that the spirit world was ever-present. She remembered the strong sense of Valentina’s ghost in that very house when she had arrived all those years ago, and how she had moved on when Immacolata had finally let her go.

  She climbed back into bed beside Panfilo, who had slept through his niece’s plaintive cries, and lay down. Her mind jumped from thought to thought, willing herself to drift off again. Suddenly she heard the sound of humming outside. It could have been the whistle of the wind, or an owl, but it grew louder as the sound approached the house. Intrigued, she got out of bed and moved over to the window. There, walking with a bounce in her step, was Rosa. Alba was shocked. Her first thought was for Eugenio. If he found his wife weaving her way back home in the early hours of the morning, there’d be the most monumental row. She slipped on her dressing-gown and hurried downstairs, catching Rosa as she crept in through the side door like a burglar. ‘Where in God’s name have you been?’ Alba demanded, hands on hips, her face pale in the moonlight that shone through the kitchen windows.

  ‘For a walk.’

  ‘At this hour of the night?’

  ‘It’s my favourite hour.’

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘I haven’t drunk a drop. I’m just happy!’ She smiled secretively.

  ‘What have you to be so happy about when your husband lies alone in bed and your children . . . ?’

  ‘They never wake up in the night.’

  ‘There’s always a chance they will, and then what? Eugenio will wonder where you are.’

  ‘I walk at night all the time.’ She leaned against the sideboard and folded her arms. ‘I love to walk in the dark, along the cliffs, down on the beach by the sea. It makes me happy, Mamma. It gets me out of this claustrophobic house. Allows me to breathe. Tonight was special though. I’m happier than I have ever been. In fact, I never thought I could be so happy.’

  Alba’s face darkened. ‘Who have you been with?’

  ‘No one. Spirits.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’ve been with spirits. Ghosts.’ She shook her head as if her mother was too stupid to understand. ‘Don’t worry. I’m being silly. I’m tired now. If you don’t mind I’ll go to bed.’

  ‘Don’t let Eugenio catch you creeping out in the middle of the night.’

  ‘He sleeps like a log.’

  ‘Well, one of these days the log might just wake up and then you’ll be in trouble.’

  ‘I know how to deal with my husband. Men are all the same.’

  Alba watched her daughter’s insouciance with concern. ‘The trouble with you, Rosa, is that you don’t appreciate what you have.’

  ‘How would you know? You never ask. It’s always Cosima, Cosima, Cosima. I can’t remember the last time you actually asked me how I was. But it doesn’t matter.’ She walked towards the stairs. ‘By the way, Cosima and Luca are lovers.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Of course you do. You two are as thick as thieves.’ She began to climb the stairs, leaving Alba smouldering with fury.

  ‘Whatever you may think, I’m your mother and this is my house. Try looking past your own nose, Rosa. You always have been selfish!’

  Rosa wanted to slam the bathroom door behind her, but she didn’t want to wake Eugenio. She put her hands on the basin and inhaled, flaring her nostrils with anger. How dare her mother talk to her like that? She wasn’t selfish. She just wanted to be the centre of her mother’s world. Surely, as a daughter, that was her right? But Cosima occupied that place and had done ever since Francesco drowned. She stared at her face in the mirror and saw Valentina staring right back at her.

  Now the likelihood was that Cosima would move to England with Luca. Well, she was welcome t
o him. Rosa no longer needed Luca to take her away; tonight, she had discovered that everything she needed was right here in Incantellaria and always had been.

  Once again she climbed into bed believing her husband lay sleeping, trusting that he could not have heard her conversation with her mother. Once again Eugenio’s heart spilled a little more blood.

  The following morning was Sunday. Rosa hummed the entire way through breakfast, a secretive smile on her face, while Cosima ate in silence, clinging on to Francesco with all her senses. Panfilo went to Mass with Toto, Beata, Rosa, Eugenio, the children and their cousins, leaving Alba at home with Cosima, who had made plans to see Luca.

  Panfilo had kissed his wife tenderly, advising her to ignore the row with Rosa.

  ‘Can’t imagine where she gets it from,’ he had laughed, the lines deepening into his handsome face.

  ‘I’ve mellowed over the years,’ Alba had said, reluctantly smiling back.

  ‘And so will Rosa. She’s young and spirited. We’ll talk about it later, but perhaps she needs her own home.’

  ‘On a policeman’s salary?’

  ‘No, on mine!’

  The truth was Alba didn’t want Rosa and Eugenio to move out. Whenever it had been mentioned she had thought of every possible excuse to prevent it. She had told them to wait until they had enough money to buy a nice big place. When Panfilo had suggested helping them financially, she had told him his offer would damage Eugenio’s pride. Anyway, wasn’t it convenient to have a babysitter on tap? Three children was a handful, but with their grandmother around the load became a great deal lighter. It was part of Italian culture for families to live together. That’s the way Immacolata had lived and they had followed her example. Secretly, Alba feared the place would be lonely without them, especially with Panfilo away so much of the time. They were part of the fabric of the place and she cherished their company. She adored the children, took pleasure from reading them stories every night, tucking them into bed. She loved watching them playing in the olive grove.

  But more than any of that they helped her deal with the loss of Francesco. If it hadn’t been for Rosa and her family, Alba would have been dragged into the abyss with her niece. As it was, she couldn’t speak of her own heartbreak; if she went down that road she might never return.

  Cosima was at the sink washing up, her mind still in a dream, when Luca’s face appeared at the window. He came in, embraced her and kissed her cheek. Alba turned away, finding their intimacy overwhelming. ‘I want to take you away for the day, if your family can spare you.’

  ‘Of course, go.’ Alba’s spirits lifted as Cosima’s face flushed with pleasure. ‘You deserve some fun.’

  Luca released her and leaned against the sideboard. ‘My mother’s unbearable this morning. I had to get out.’

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’

  ‘The prospect of Panfilo coming to photograph the palazzo is more than her nerves can take. She’s sitting in the lotus position on the terace, trying to calm down. Not easy with my father and the professor enjoying a heated political debate at the table next door!’ He sighed. ‘A whole troop of florists, stylists, make-up artists and assistants will descend on the place tomorrow so I’ll need to escape then too.’

  ‘You can help us at the trattoria,’ Cosima suggested with a smile. ‘Rosa’s volunteered to help Panfilo.’

  ‘I bet she has.’

  Alba recalled her daughter’s midnight escapade and wondered whether they knew something she didn’t. ‘I can’t imagine he needs her,’ she said, fishing for information.

  ‘She has a fascination with that place,’ said Cosima. ‘I think she’s sneaking up to the folly in the middle of the night.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘A little adventure?’

  ‘In that dead old place?’

  ‘It lives for her.’

  Alba shook her head. ‘I’m sure you’re mistaken.’

  ‘Well,’ Luca said. ‘Someone’s been in there and my mother’s given me the job of finding out who it is.’

  ‘Rosa knows how I feel about the palazzo.’ Alba was pale. She didn’t want to talk about the palazzo, let alone imagine her daughter luxuriating in the tragedy of the past. Rosa knew how sacred it was to her.

  ‘Mother’s invited another couple to stay,’ said Luca, changing the subject.

  ‘It’s like a hotel up there,’ said Alba. Her voice sounded sharper than she intended.

  ‘Getting more like a hotel by the minute,’ Luca agreed. ‘The professor and Ma Hemple are permanent fixtures I think; they’ll be staying all summer for sure. I don’t know how my parents put up with people hanging around all the time.’

  ‘So, who have they invited now?’ Cosima asked, putting away the plates she had dried.

  ‘A charming old boy called Fitzroy Davenport.’ Luca spoke slowly and deliberately, suddenly guilty about pretending not to know Alba’s history. He watched her mouth fall open in surprise.

  ‘Fitzroy Davenport?’

  ‘The very same,’ Luca replied. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes, we were lovers.’

  Cosima stared at her aunt. Her candour was disarming. ‘Lovers? When?’

  Alba laughed. ‘Long before I met Panfilo. When you were a little girl. I made a very wise choice back then, and I have never regretted it for a moment. It was either you, Cosima, or Fitz – I couldn’t have both.’

  ‘Poor Fitz,’ said Luca.

  ‘Well, he eventually married someone else. Who is she?’

  ‘Rosemary,’ Luca replied. ‘Very . . . efficient.’

  ‘You mean pushy. Oh really, Fitz, of all the women to choose. He was always going to be vulnerable to a woman like that! When are they coming?’

  ‘Next weekend.’

  ‘I can hardly wait. After all these years. Won’t he be surprised?’

  Luca recalled the wistful look on his face and the tender way he had spoken of her. ‘Pleasantly surprised,’ he added with emphasis. For a moment he felt sorry for Rosemary, Alba being so much more beautiful, but he didn’t mention that. Instead, he led Cosima out into the sunshine. He’d warned Alba that Fitzroy was coming. He’d meddled enough.

  They lay together on the grass beneath the old lookout point. Cosima had an air of distraction, as if her mind were elsewhere. He ran his hand through her hair, scrunching it between his fingers, and swept his lips across her skin. ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘I had a dream last night,’ she replied, smiling tentatively. ‘I don’t know what to make of it.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘Francesco.’

  26

  Nanni and Fiyona followed Caradoc’s instructions and sat on a bench in the square outside the church. The sun shone, birds twittered in the trees or hopped on to the grass to peck at crumbs left for them by small children, and the church bell summoned people to Mass. Elderly men and women dressed in black surfaced in the square like crabs crawling out of crevices in rock, their heads covered with black hats or veils, their rosary beads rattling in their pockets. Young couples walked briskly across the square with their children, little girls in their best dresses, little boys scrubbed clean. It seemed the whole town emptied into the church. Everything was closed but for the hotel, outside which a couple of American tourists waited for a taxi with cameras slung over their shoulders, peering at a guidebook of Southern Italy.

  Fiyona and Nanni waited like a pair of hyenas. With Fiyona, Nanni was transformed. He felt virile and sexy. He displayed his large belly and smoked a cigar. Fiyona seemed rather more interested in the young men, so dark and handsome with their Latin air of insouciance that so excited her. She couldn’t help but smile at them and they smiled back, instantly recognising the availability in her eyes, like an ‘open’ sign hanging in a shop window.

  She put a cigarette between her lips and lit it, letting the smoke dribble out through the side of her mouth. ‘This town is full of old people,’ she said. ‘They m
ust all know something.’

  ‘We have to find the right person,’ Nanni replied. ‘Few will want to talk. People from the south are cagey.’

  ‘Nothing cagey about the young,’ she said, thinking of Fiero and their shameless flirting the night before.

  ‘The young didn’t live through the war.’

  ‘Did your sister know about its history when she bought the place?’

  ‘They fell in love with the palazzo. The history didn’t interest them.’

  ‘It does now.’

  ‘It interests everyone now.’ He flicked ash on to the ground.

  ‘So she doesn’t mind that an old man was murdered in her home?’

  ‘Why should she? It happened long ago.’

  ‘I wonder what Alba and her family think of your sister renovating it?’

  ‘If Alba minded that much she wouldn’t have chosen to live here. Besides, she never knew her mother. Valentina died when she was a baby.’

  ‘But her uncle was a murderer.’

  ‘He took revenge on his sister’s death.’

  ‘Still a murderer. I’m sure she’d rather the whole episode was forgotten.’

  ‘Don’t forget, Falco was never charged with the murder. The police believed it was the mafia. The case is closed.’

  ‘Just Falco on his own, or did he have an accomplice?’ She remembered Rosa’s slip of the tongue.

  ‘How many people does it take to kill a marquis?’ Nanni chuckled. ‘Perhaps there were three, who knows?’

  ‘But I want to know,’ she said with emphasis. ‘I like to get the facts right. That’s what makes me a good journalist.’