The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  ‘And the young men who resisted, the Partisans?’ Chiara leaned forwards. She wanted to hear this story again, because it was Papà’s story.

  ‘Oh, yes, my dear. Joining a partisan group was almost the only way to escape the fighting. But they were fighting too – for Liberation.’ Giovanna nodded. Her old neck was wrinkled as a turtle’s. ‘They mostly stayed up in the mountains, and when they came to the town, they hid in the convent. They were runaways. Where else could they go?’

  ‘And when someone came looking for them?’ Nazis, Republican Fascists. No doubt, the more men who joined the Partisan groups, the worse the reprisals would be.

  ‘They climbed up the old bell tower.’ She gestured towards it, just visible beyond the olive grove.

  Chiara tried to imagine the fear, the shootings, the torture. She shivered and leaned back against the stone wall, warm from the afternoon sun. A few metres away, the last of Giovanna’s tomatoes were still ripening on the vines. What must it have been like to live in an occupied town? She remembered her mother telling her that there had been a curfew at eight o’clock. ‘We Italians hate sticking to the rules, as you know, cara,’ she had said. ‘But if anyone was caught outside after that time, they’d be arrested and spend the night in a cell in the castle tower, you can be sure.’

  ‘It was brave of the nuns to help the Partisans,’ Chiara said. She sipped the lemonade, wondered if Giovanna still used the nuns’ old recipe.

  ‘Many people were brave, my dear,’ said Giovanna. ‘On all sides.’ Her eyes grew dreamy as if she had slipped back to that time.

  ‘But on that day when Papà was injured . . .’ Chiara’s voice broke.

  Giovanna’s expression grew more serious still. She seemed to understand that Chiara needed to hear the story again today. ‘On that day, we had no warning, my dear. No one saw it coming. The soldiers forced the gates, they charged in. There was no time to climb the bell tower. Your papà and the others, they ran off through the olive grove – it was all they could do.’ Giovanna let out a deep sigh and her thin shoulders sagged. ‘There were shots.’

  ‘You were there?’ Chiara stared out into the grove. These trees had witnessed so much. But surely her aunt had not lived at the convent until after her mother died?

  ‘I was there.’ Giovanna clasped her gnarled hands together. ‘I often came to the convent as a girl. Not just with the bread, you know.’ She paused, and Chiara had the distinct feeling of something left unsaid. She stared into her aunt’s eyes, waited for her to go on. What was it? Some other sadness about that time? Her mother had always said that Giovanna had experienced a most traumatic war, and of course there was the death of her family. ‘And then . . .’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Your father was injured, but at least he escaped.’ Giovanna’s voice changed. ‘For that, I am grateful. Your poor mother – I always knew how close they were.’

  Others though had not escaped. Chiara knew that her father had seen two of his brothers at arms shot dead as they raced desperately through the olives, up the terraces, out on to the mountains thick with chestnut trees. The olive grove had not been able to protect them all. He had spoken of this part of the story to Chiara only once, his entire frame shuddering with the memory, the pain. No wonder the old convent had meant so much to Papà. No wonder he had wanted to save it after the war when the nuns had all left.

  Chiara held her face up to the sun. ‘But why did the nuns all leave?’

  Her aunt gave a little shrug. ‘There was so little money. The community was gone. The village was bombed. We had been so violated, my dear. Valuable artefacts were stolen from the convent, just as they’d been stolen from the church and the castle.’ She shook her head. ‘Many of them were never recovered.’

  Chiara knew that Vernazza was not alone in this. The rape of Italy, it had been called.

  ‘But didn’t you want the convent to remain a religious building?’ Chiara persisted. ‘When the war was over, I mean?’

  Giovanna looked out into the olive grove. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Well, the nuns had taken you in . . .’ Though Chiara didn’t want to upset her aunt by talking too much about that time.

  ‘Yes, they did. They helped many people in times of trouble – whatever their faith.’

  ‘But you were never tempted to join the order?’

  ‘I was not.’ She chuckled. ‘A woman can serve God and her village in many ways, my dear.’

  And she certainly had done that. Chiara sometimes thought the entire Cinque Terre came to Giovanna with their spiritual and emotional problems. There was no chance for her aunt to be lonely.

  Chiara reached for her hand. ‘You’re a marvel.’ She honestly was. And if Chiara were going to confide in anyone, her aunt would be the person she’d choose. But . . .

  ‘Nonsense.’ Giovanna’s voice was brisk. ‘I simply did not want to see L’Attico Convento become a ruin. Your parents wanted to save the building. I respected them for it. They only wanted to bring people to the Levante again. There is nothing at all wrong with that.’

  Chiara smiled. She was always so loyal. Though even her parents might be shocked at what had happened since. These days, so many visitors came to the Cinque Terre that sometimes she thought the five villages had truly reached saturation point and that something had to give.

  ‘People have always wanted to stay in Vernazza.’ Giovanna clicked her tongue at one of the hens pecking in the yard and the bird looked up at her, cocked her head. ‘Even before there were hotels, before il boom and all that shiny macchine, televisions and such, you know?’

  Chiara knew.

  ‘The local boys knew which people were willing to rent out a room and for a coin or two, they’d take them there.’ She chuckled. ‘There might not be a bathroom mind, but there was always hospitality. Then and now.’

  Chiara thought of the understated luxury of The Lemon Tree Hotel, how they had transformed the simple building that had been the old convent into the elegant and historical place it was today. ‘You’re right. How things have changed.’

  ‘Exactly, my dear, that is life, as I say.’ Giovanna shrugged. ‘But you mustn’t worry about me. I have always been happy here in my cottage. Your parents were good to me.’

  And where else could she have gone? Her father had died fighting, and her mother had died giving birth – to a baby who was stillborn. Chiara’s mother had told her this many years ago, and Chiara knew that this was when their friendship had begun to deepen. Gently, she patted her aunt’s hand. She was sorry. For these deaths, all the suffering, perhaps even for coming here this afternoon and bringing up the past.

  ‘It was a long time ago.’ Giovanna blinked her rheumy eyes.

  ‘It was.’ And yet Chiara knew that for Giovanna too, that long ago past could sometimes seem as close and real as yesterday.

  CHAPTER 9

  Isabella

  Isabella saw Ferdinand Bauer sitting out in the courtyard. This was unusual. Since he’d arrived a few days ago, he always seemed to be on the go, wandering around the hotel and grounds as she’d discovered yesterday, checking things out, disappearing behind cloistered walls, down stairs and corridors. She’d meant to come back to him yesterday about the proposed visit to Aunt Giovanna, but she hadn’t had a chance. So now, she went out through the cloisters to speak with him. He was sitting by the small stone fountain, studying a map of the area, and he jumped to his feet when he saw her.

  ‘I was just looking at some hiking trails,’ he said. ‘Maybe you could advise me where to go to get off the beaten track?’ And he fixed her with a certain look from his cool blue eyes.

  ‘Hiking trails?’ Isabella couldn’t help feeling that there was something quite different he wanted to say. ‘Yes, there are a few.’ She glanced at the map – it was one of the good ones. ‘But I really came along to apologise for yesterday.’

  ‘No need.’ He grinned – almost as if he was enjoying her discomfort.

  ‘And to tell y
ou that I spoke to my Aunt Giovanna.’

  ‘And?’ His voice was eager.

  ‘And she’s happy to talk to you.’

  ‘That’s great. When? Did you fix up a time?’ Already he was folding his map away and stuffing it in a canvas bag.

  Isabella couldn’t help laughing. ‘We could go now, I suppose,’ she said. ‘I’ve just finished my shift on reception, and Giovanna’s usually around.’ People came to Giovanna, not the other way about these days.

  ‘Fantastic.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘How far away does she live?’

  ‘Her cottage is in the grounds.’

  Isabella led the way through the olive grove towards Giovanna’s place. As always, the trees seemed to give off an air of gentle protection. When she was a young girl she had spent many happy hours playing in the grove, sometimes lost in her imagination, sometimes playing hide and seek among the gnarled trees and crooked branches and making her poor parents frantic when they couldn’t find her. Her mother had always scolded her, but her father had only laughed. Isabella suspected that he too would like to take time off from the hotel now and again – magari! Chance would be a fine thing.

  She felt a little awkward being alone with Ferdinand Bauer like this; the olive grove was such a peaceful and private place. But she was looking forward to the meeting between him and her aunt Giovanna. She sneaked a sideways glance at him. He was tall and lean, not muscular, but sinewy and probably quite strong. Already, his fair skin was lightly tanned from the sun, and his hair seemed even more streaked with blond than before. He had told her that he planned to stay for at least a week – which was longer than their average visitor – and she was pleased about this. Not that she had any feelings about him one way or the other, and he was only a guest after all, but . . . The sun was very warm and she noticed a faint bead of sweat forming above his upper lip. Quickly, she looked away.

  Ferdinand turned towards her as they walked along the gravelly path. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Isabella, but I was wondering – does Giovanna still recall past events clearly?’ He held an olive branch up out of their way.

  ‘Very clearly, I’d say.’ Her aunt’s mind was still razor sharp. Isabella glanced at him once more. He seemed lost in thought. ‘But remember, Signore—’

  ‘Ferdinand please,’ he reminded her once again.

  ‘Ferdinand.’ Again, she tasted the name on her tongue. ‘. . . That some of those past events might have been traumatic for her.’ Isabella wanted him to be warned. ‘It is the history of the building you wanted to talk to her about, you said?’ After all, Vernazza had been occupied by the compatriots of this man walking beside her in the grove. Some of the older people in the village still talked of it. Of course, it was a long time ago, and naturally Isabella was of a generation that had no feelings of bitterness whatsoever, but . . .

  ‘I understand that.’ He stopped walking for a moment and put a hand gently on her arm. ‘Don’t worry. The last thing I want to do is upset her.’

  ‘Thank you. Then I’m sure you won’t.’ She looked at him, conscious of a jolt of connection between them, a mere blink of awareness – of him, his height, his fair skin and striking blue eyes. She shook it off and they walked on. It was nothing, she thought. Probably just the heat of the sun.

  They arrived at the cottage and she knocked on the door. Not waiting for a reply, she opened it wide and called out. ‘Aunt Giovanna? It’s me – Isabella.’

  ‘I am out the back, Bella,’ came a faint but welcoming voice.

  Isabella exchanged a small smile with Ferdinand. ‘Let’s go around the side.’ She led the way.

  Giovanna was seated in her usual place on the worn wooden bench surrounded by orange and red geraniums, several hens of similar colours scratching the cobbles around and beyond. ‘Hello, my darling.’ Spritely, for a woman of over eighty, she got to her feet. ‘Goodness me, I have been so lucky today – so many people have come to see me.’

  Isabella remembered that her grandmother had also called in. ‘Should we come back another time?’ She hesitated. ‘If you’re too tired . . .’

  ‘Nonsense. I’m never too tired to see people.’ Giovanna was peering behind her, curious to see the young man she’d mentioned, Isabella supposed.

  ‘Good. So, Aunt, this is the guest I was telling you about who is interested in the old convent.’ Isabella had been standing in front of him, but now she stood to one side and Ferdinand stepped forwards.

  The afternoon sun must have been in Giovanna’s eyes for she stared, blinked, seemed mesmerised. For a moment, Isabella thought that she would keel right over, and she and Ferdinand both dashed forwards to help her back on to the bench.

  ‘Aunt, Aunt, are you all right? What is it? Are you ill?’

  Giovanna grabbed Isabella’s hand tightly. ‘I am fine, Bella,’ she whispered. But her eyes were locked on to Ferdinand’s.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Isabella asked her. Perhaps after all she shouldn’t have brought him here – her aunt was clearly upset already.

  ‘Nothing. Just . . .’ Giovanna let go of her hand. ‘Memories. You didn’t tell me he was . . .’ She faltered.

  ‘German?’ Ferdinand took a step closer.

  Isabella was horrified. Hadn’t she? ‘I’m sorry, Aunt, I didn’t think—’

  ‘No, no, my dear.’ Giovanna silenced her with a raised hand. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me.’ She was still staring at Ferdinand. ‘It is not a problem, not at all, why should it be? It’s just that for a moment, I thought . . .’

  ‘What did you think?’ Isabella frowned.

  ‘A face from the past,’ she murmured. ‘That is all.’

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to talk to me, Signora.’ Ferdinand spoke more softly than he had before. And he spoke in half-decent Italian – Isabella recalled that he had told her he had learned the language when in Italy studying art history. He dropped down and sat easily on the ground at Giovanna’s feet. ‘And I’m so sorry for giving you such a shock.’

  Giovanna’s eyes were watering from the sun. Or was she crying? Isabella was about to step forwards once more. But now Giovanna was positively beaming at her visitor. It was most confusing. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘You know how it is. I am old. I see things – and people . . .’ She gave him an intent look ‘. . . that aren’t really there.’

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Signora.’ Ferdinand cocked his head to one side. ‘I came here to find out a bit more about the convent, as Isabella mentioned.’

  Giovanna nodded as if this were the most natural thing in the world. ‘Of course, you did,’ she said. ‘And what is your name, young man?’

  ‘Ferdinand Bauer.’

  Giovanna didn’t seem able to take her eyes off him. ‘Ah, sì, sì.’

  They both looked at Isabella. It was odd, but it was almost as if they wanted to be alone. She must be imagining things surely? But they both remained silent as if they were waiting for her to go. ‘Shall I make some coffee?’ she suggested.

  ‘Ah, yes, please, my dear, if you would.’ Giovanna folded her wrinkled hands in her lap. She now appeared the picture of serenity.

  Isabella went into her aunt’s tiny kitchen to put on the percolator. She could see the two of them through the windowpane, talking intently, gazes locked; an unlikely twosome it had to be said, this tall fair-haired young man from Germany, and the diminutive, elderly Giovanna. But charming nevertheless, she thought. And there was a real emotional intensity in their body language – she could tell that even from this distance.

  By the time she took the coffee out on a tray, the conversation was of the old convent building and how it had changed since becoming The Lemon Tree Hotel, and they continued to chat about this as Isabella passed milk and sugar and settled back on the bench to listen. They clearly had no need of an interpreter.

  ‘Vernazza has always been a hub of the arts,’ Giovanna was saying. ‘It has always attracted artists, musicians, actors, dancers, ah, sì . . . Very colourful, yes, in
deed.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘There were many avant-garde gatherings down in the piazza.’

  ‘Really, Aunt?’

  ‘Ah, yes, people were shocked, scandalised even.’ She beamed. Isabella had rarely seen her so animated.

  ‘There were impromptu parties – so loud that the people who lived nearby took to throwing tomatoes at them to try to get them to go home to sleep. And someone – probably Gianni, Aldo and Giorgio – even bought the old olive mill and turned it into a club.’

  ‘Did you go there, Signora?’ Ferdinand asked her. He was teasing, but Isabella liked the respect in his voice when he spoke to her aunt, she loved the fact that he was so interested in her memories of Vernazza.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, bless you, no.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘And no parent in Vernazza would let their daughter go there either.’

  ‘A real den of iniquity then?’

  ‘Probably not. It didn’t even have a license to sell alcohol as far as I know, but that wouldn’t have stopped anyone.’

  They all laughed.

  ‘Did I ever tell you, Bella, about the Rotunda delle Rose?’ Giovanna was on a roll. ‘The open-air dance hall where an orchestra would play and everyone would come in summertime to dance?’

  Isabella smiled and nodded. ‘You did, Aunt, yes.’ Her grandmother had talked of it too.

  ‘An entire orchestra?’ Ferdinand marvelled.

  ‘Oh, well, a drummer, a trumpet player, and someone playing the accordion.’ Giovanna chuckled. ‘People joining in humming and tapping a spoon.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful.’

  ‘Ah, yes, it was.’

  But fascinating though her aunt’s memories were, Isabella couldn’t escape the feeling that this conversation was for her benefit, and that the other conversation, the one she’d witnessed through the window but unfortunately not heard, was the one that really mattered.