by Rosanna Ley
‘And I have been chatting to one of our guests,’ Silvio added.
‘Oh, yes?’ Elene added the ricotta cheese to her sauce – but only after Silvio had filched a small cube.
‘We have an architect staying here at the moment.’ He gave her a knowing look. ‘A young guy. Very friendly.’
‘Is that so? Where is he from?’ And now for the cream, she thought. She began to add it carefully, along with the remainder of the oil.
‘Benissimo! It smells great.’ Silvio sniffed appreciatively. ‘Somewhere in Germany.’
‘Ah, yes.’ She thought she could recall her mother mentioning someone – and there was something else she thought she should remember, but for the moment it escaped her mind. The salsa did indeed smell delicious; fresh and herby, the nuts providing the grounding, the cream adding the richness. She took a teaspoon and tasted the sauce. A little more pepper perhaps?
‘Is it good?’ Silvio looked so forlorn that Elene took pity on him.
‘Here.’ She offered him the teaspoon. ‘What was his name?’
‘Ah, that is wonderful, my love.’ He smacked his lips and blew her a kiss. ‘Signor Bauer, I think he said.’
‘Va bene.’ She added the pepper and tasted again. Perfect. Not that his name mattered a jot. Elene and Silvio rarely had much to do with the hotel guests. She supposed it was inevitable, given that her time was taken up in the kitchen and Silvio was usually working in one of the unoccupied rooms or away in the grounds somewhere, but she resented it all the same. It was just another of the ways in which she and Silvio felt less important at The Lemon Tree Hotel, less valued. Their work comprised of slaving away behind the scenes, and so people were hardly aware of them, while Chiara and Isabella dealt with their guests; taking their money, allocating them their rooms, and receiving their grateful thanks and praise, no doubt.
Silvio came a step closer. ‘He was saying how much he liked the old convent building,’ he told her. ‘How much he appreciated the . . .’ He waved his arms around in dramatic fashion ‘. . . peaceful atmosphere of the place.’
Elene snorted. It hadn’t been very peaceful here lately. She had missed the scene in the restaurant when her father had returned to find her mother enjoying an intimate dinner with Rossi (missed it on purpose in fact, feeling bad that she was the one to have caused it) but no doubt some of the guests had enjoyed the spectacle – even Isabella had mentioned something about it and asked Elene if she knew what was going on. Yes, there had certainly been an emotional whirlwind in full flow. She covered the saucepan. The sauce was thick, but when she added the pasta it would come right. Some people made the mistake of allowing the salsa di noci to cook in the pan, but it must not – this would make it lose its vibrancy.
‘Maybe we should ask him what he thinks of our ideas for the hotel, eh?’
Silvio was at the door already, putting his boots on again. He turned back to Elene and lowered his voice. ‘There’s no point,’ he told her. ‘Your mother would never agree to it. You know what she’s like about protecting everyone’s privacy while they’re staying here. And anyway, no one wants to talk about work when they are on holiday.’
Elene shrugged. ‘He told you he was an architect though, sì?’
‘Yes . . .’ Silvio had his worried look on again. He’d obviously been trying to distract her with his mention of architects and it had turned into something he now wanted to avoid.
‘So, he doesn’t mind people knowing what he does for a living.’
‘Maybe.’ Silvio now clearly couldn’t wait to get out of the door.
‘He could even be looking for more work. Who isn’t?’
Silvio pulled a face. ‘Quite a few people, now you come to mention it, and—’
‘So why not take the opportunity?’ Elene had the bit between her teeth now. The more she thought about it, the better an idea it sounded. Synchronicity, it was called, was it not, when such a thing fell your way at the right time? ‘Just a little conversation. He can only say no. What harm could it do?’
‘Just a little conversation?’ he repeated as if he didn’t think she was capable of such a thing.
‘Exactly.’
‘And your mother?’ He looked towards Raphael. But he was over the other side of la cucina slicing peppers as if his life depended on it. ‘Is this another test?’
‘My mother?’ Elene moved closer to him, reached up and kissed him briefly on the lips. He looked surprised – as well he might, for this was a rare occurrence. She thought of her mother and the uneasy truce they’d shared since the other morning. She thought of Dante Rossi and the look on her mother’s face when she came out of his room. She didn’t think of whether it was or was not a test. ‘Allora. Why does she even need to know?’
CHAPTER 22
Isabella
Once again, Isabella was conscious that the atmosphere in The Lemon Tree seemed to lack its usual tranquillity. Everyone seemed on edge. Emanuele had been late for his shift again this morning, and Ghita had not turned up at all, much to her mother’s irritation.
She volunteered to collect the eggs from Giovanna. After what Ferdinand had said – and not said – in Sestri Levante, she hadn’t forgotten that she wanted to have a word with her aunt and check up on her too.
She walked through the olive grove to Giovanna’s cottage, half-expecting Ferdinand to be there. But of course, he would not be; she was imagining things, getting it all out of proportion. Instead, there was Giovanna in her black dress, wrinkled stockings, and flat black shoes, sweeping the step with her old-fashioned broom, her sweet face wreathed in smiles the moment she caught sight of her. Thank goodness – all was well.
‘Ah, Bella, how lovely,’ she said. ‘Come through, sit down, let me look at you.’
Isabella accepted a glass of fresh lemonade, and they sat on the little terrace at the back of the cottage discussing the welfare of the chickens.
‘Lia is laying well at the moment,’ Giovanna told her. ‘Just look at her.’
Isabella smiled at the note of pride in her aunt’s voice. Her girls . . . But it was true that Lia’s feathers were bright, and she had a perky look to her as she strutted around the cobbled terrace where Isabella and Giovanna sat on the old bench watching the hens peck at the feed she had scattered for them.
‘And this one?’ Isabella indicated a rather more dull-eyed hen on the edge of the clucking crowd. ‘She doesn’t look very full of the joys of spring?’ Or late summer, in this case.
‘Mara.’ Giovanna shook her head. ‘She’s rather sullen today, my dear.’ Her old aunt clicked her tongue, sounding rather like one of the hens herself. ‘She’s laying – but not as well as usual.’
‘What do you think’s wrong with her?’ Isabella watched the sad-faced hen and found herself wondering what range of emotions a hen might experience in her life. Might she, for example, be resentful if the cockerel overlooked her in favour of another bird? Might she be happier when the sun was shining or when she had laid a perfectly formed egg? At any rate, at least these chickens were well cared for and allowed to roam free. They would also escape the pot, if Giovanna had anything to do with it.
‘Who knows?’ Giovanna frowned, got to her feet, and threw Mara a handful of feed from the tin.
‘And the eggs?’ Isabella knew that her mother wanted at least two dozen. If there were fewer, they’d have to go elsewhere – and perhaps invest in some more hens for the future.
‘It’s not only Mara who’s quieter than usual.’ Giovanna shook her white head. ‘Even so . . .’ She disappeared and came back with a few cartons from her cool larder. She opened the boxes to show them to Isabella.
They were brown and smelt sweet and fresh, one or two fluffy feathers still stuck to the shells. Isabella breathed in deeply. ‘Wonderful.’ She knew that her mother loved to cook with eggs freshly laid in the grounds of The Lemon Tree Hotel. And Giovanna took great pride that her large family of hens provided them.
They sat on the bench and dr
ank their lemonade. The sharp citrus was both dry and sweet on her tongue. ‘I spent the day with Ferdinand Bauer yesterday,’ Isabella told her aunt. Giovanna’s reaction would probably tell her all she needed to know.
Giovanna took in a sharp breath and then let it go. ‘Ah, sì, sì.’ Which frankly told her nothing.
‘Can I ask you, Aunt . . .’ She hesitated. She didn’t want to bring up the painful past again, but . . .
Giovanna’s eyes clouded. ‘Bella, my dear,’ she said. ‘You can ask me anything you wish.’ Despite her words though, Isabella sensed a reticence, a closing down of emotions. Her aunt placed her glass on the worn and pitted table and folded her hands in her lap. She was waiting.
Isabella watched her closely. ‘Do you remember him?’ she asked.
‘Him?’ Giovanna’s old eyes flickered.
‘Ferdinand’s father.’
She gave a little start of surprise at this, though she must have been expecting it, surely? ‘Yes, Bella,’ she said. ‘I do. I remember all the men who were stationed here – what they looked like at least.’
Which was exactly as Isabella had suspected. But why had Ferdinand made such a thing about it? ‘Ferdinand – he looks like his father, doesn’t he?’
‘Why, yes.’ She gave her gentle smile. ‘I suppose that he does.’
‘It must have been awful.’ Isabella could hardly imagine. They had tried to make the hotel an oasis of peace. What had it been like when the town was occupied, when the Partisans hid in the convent, given refuge by the nuns, when the fascists and the occupying German forces came to search them out? ‘The nuns must have been terrified every time someone came to the gates.’
‘I’m sure that they were.’ Giovanna’s milky brown eyes glazed over as if she were remembering those far-off days of brutality, poverty, and fear. ‘But they always believed that God would keep them safe in the convent.’ She crossed herself swiftly. ‘They were probably far more frightened for the men taking refuge there – men like your great-grandfather, whose lives were at risk.’
‘Of course.’ They had been selfless those nuns – and very brave. ‘But how you must have hated the men who were taking over your town.’ Men like Ferdinand’s father, Karl Bauer.
An expression of disapproval flickered across Giovanna’s lined face. ‘Hate is a strong word, my dear.’
‘I suppose it is.’ But justified surely? Perhaps the nuns’ faith and religious beliefs prevented them from hating even the perpetrators who filled them with such terror. But Giovanna hadn’t been a nun – just a young teenage girl at the time. ‘So are you saying that you didn’t hate them? Even though they were occupying Vernazza? Even though—’ But here, Isabella could not go on. She didn’t know all the details of the atrocities that had taken place, but she knew enough not to offer any reminders to this dear woman who must have witnessed at least some of them as a girl.
Giovanna bowed her head. ‘It’s true, Bella. I did not hate them.’
Isabella stared at her. How truly good she was.
‘Some were worse than others, of course. Most were just ordinary men following orders you know, my dear. The war, the occupation, the way we were living – these men were not to blame for all this.’
‘But surely—’ Isabella had heard that there were men who had taken advantage of their new-found sense of power – that always happened, did it not, in times of war? There would always be men from all sides who enjoyed the suffering of others, who were born to bully. Wasn’t her aunt simply blinded by her need to see the good in everyone?
‘The men who gave the orders to shoot, to maim, to torture . . .’ Giovanna’s voice broke. ‘They were the ones to blame. As for the others – they had to follow those orders,’ she whispered, ‘or pay the price for disobedience.’
‘Yes, I see.’ It was a fair point. And Isabella could guess what that price would be. Perhaps she was seeing things in black-and-white, when in fact there were many shades of grey. She let her gaze drift past the hens and the terracotta pots of scarlet geraniums and through to the olive grove. It was such a paradise – now. And yet, these old trees had witnessed everything – all the atrocities, all the pain. Some of those responsible for war crimes had paid the price, at least. But how many more were there – who had colluded, who had taken advantage, who had committed cruel acts out of greed, or even for the sheer buzz of it? Human nature could be a frightening thing to witness, now just as much as back then.
Giovanna put a wrinkled hand on her arm. ‘Life is so much more complicated than it sometimes appears, Bella,’ she said. ‘Is that not so?’
Isabella thought of Ferdinand Bauer. His hair shining gold in the sun, his eyes of a blue as untroubled as the water in their swimming pool, his pale tan body when he had taken off his shirt on the beach at Sestri Levante. That faint brush of his lips. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ Her feelings towards him were so mixed, so confusing. Soon he would be gone. Soon, she wouldn’t have to concern herself with it at all. But until then . . .
‘And yet sometimes, life is so simple.’ Giovanna chuckled softly. ‘Ah, sì.’ She bent to snip off a dead geranium head between her thumb and forefinger.
‘What are you saying, Aunt?’ Isabella frowned. Once again, she couldn’t escape the feeling that she was being left out of some mysterious scenario. There were secrets, she was sure of that. And perhaps those secrets were shared by Giovanna and Ferdinand Bauer. Only . . . she couldn’t imagine what those secrets could be.
‘Oh, don’t listen to the ramblings of an old woman.’ Giovanna got to her feet. She put the empty glasses on the tin tray to take back to the kitchen.
‘Let me.’ Isabella took it from her.
‘Do you like him, Bella?’ Giovanna was watching her intently.
‘Ferdinand?’
‘Certo, Ferdinand.’ She refastened a strand of fine, white hair that had come un-pinned.
‘I don’t know.’ Isabella rinsed out the glasses at the old porcelain sink and put them on the drainer to dry. ‘Yes. No. I’m really not sure.’
Giovanna patted her arm. She reached for a drying-up cloth. ‘My advice is to give him a chance,’ she said. ‘He’s his own man. It doesn’t matter who his father was or what happened here in Vernazza. You’ve met him and you like him. That’s all that matters.’
‘Really?’ Isabella stared at her. ‘You are very forgiving, Giovanna.’ After everything that had happened . . . And was it all that mattered? What really mattered, surely, was to be able to trust someone?
Giovanna shrugged. ‘The past is past, Bella.’
‘Yes, but—’
Giovanna was giving her that look – as if she understood everything and more.
‘Why do you think he came here, Aunt?’ How could he possibly make amends for anything his father might have done all those years ago? It didn’t make sense. ‘To seek the forgiveness of the villagers?’
‘Ah, yes, perhaps.’ Giovanna nodded wisely. ‘Sometimes there are things that still need to be resolved, wouldn’t you say, Bella?’
Isabella had no idea. ‘What things, Aunt?’
But Giovanna was just staring out of the window, her expression many years away.
‘He’ll be leaving soon,’ Isabella said. And so, was there any point? She dried her hands on the square of white towel that Giovanna kept near the sink.
‘Maybe.’ Giovanna looked out of the kitchen window towards the olive grove. ‘But these things – they do not take so long to happen, you know.’
*
What things didn’t take so long to happen? And how much the wiser was she now? Isabella carried the basket of eggs carefully back through the olive grove. The trees provided a welcome shade from the morning sun, sharp rays glinting on gnarled and twisted tree trunks, forming arrows of light on the gravel path. Although she had always known the history; now, for the first time, it had become real for her. As she walked, she seemed to hear some long-ago echo from the past in the whisper of the leaves in the breeze. A shout w
ent up, a flurry of gunfire, footsteps thundered past her along the path and then disappeared among the ancient trees. She gave a little shiver and hurried on.
Inside the hotel, Ferdinand Bauer was loitering by reception. ‘I was just heading off to Lucca,’ he said when he saw her.
Isabella put the eggs on the desk. ‘Have a good day.’
‘I suppose there’s no chance . . .’ He shook his head even as he asked the question. ‘You’re working?’
‘All day,’ she confirmed. Much as she might love to spend it with Ferdinand Bauer in Lucca, there was a hotel to run.
He leaned on the desk. He smelt cool and freshly shaven. ‘How about tomorrow?’ His eyes were so blue, so clear. He seemed uncomplicated – but with that family history, how could he be?
‘I’m afraid not.’ He was keen, she’d give him that.
‘I was thinking of walking up to the Santuario di Reggio.’
She looked up at him, remembered the short discussion they’d had about hiking trails that were off the beaten track. The path to the sanctuary was certainly not as popular as those to Corniglia or Monterosso – which was one of the reasons she liked it so much. There were magnificent views of the coastline, and the sanctuary was one of those much-loved pockets of peace in the area, a traditional place of refuge, cherished by all who lived in Vernazza. Refuge, she thought, was becoming rather a theme. ‘I’m sorry – I’m on the desk from ten-thirty in the morning.’
‘An early morning hike then?’ He grinned.
Isabella was tempted. She tried not to stare at his dimples. She thought of what Giovanna had said about giving him a chance. About the past being past. About how it didn’t take long . . . ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Yes, that would be . . . very nice.’
Those cool blue eyes gleamed. ‘Good. I’ll see you later to discuss the arrangements, shall I?’
She nodded. ‘I’m helping out in the bar this evening.’
‘Ciao then, Isabella. I’ll catch you later in the bar.’