by Rosanna Ley
‘Come on then. On to the next Station of the Cross.’
He groaned – but followed her lead.
The path was studded with olive trees, prickly pear, and cacti, and they were rewarded for the climb by the view of the ocean, which flooded their vision with every twist and turn of the Via Dolorosa. They stood together looking down in awe. The first church bells rang out with their usual loud, low, sonorous clang. Then came the next, and then another from a more distant village. Ferdinand laughed.
Isabella laughed with him. ‘You should hear it at the weekend,’ she said. ‘It’s a mad cacophony of bell-ringing, a sort of dance between bass and treble.’
‘I hope I’ll still be here.’ He turned to face her. ‘You love this place, don’t you, Isabella?’
‘It’s home,’ she said simply. And he gave her a look as if he understood.
‘Is this it?’ he asked when they reached a small and derelict stone building housing another shrine. ‘Is this the sanctuary?’ He lifted his arm to mop his brow. The building was surrounded by olive trees and it stood under the shelter of a pine; the ground was scattered with pine needles, and the blanket of the sea rolled and shimmered below and beyond.
Isabella threw back her head and laughed.
‘What?’
‘No,’ she told him. ‘This is the chapel of San Bernardo. I do not wish to worry you, Signor Bauer – but we are not yet even halfway.’
‘Did I say I was tired?’ Ferdinand grumbled as they paused for a swig of water.
Isabella watched the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he drank. She could smell the fragrance of pine resin mixed with ozone and the herby vegetation that surrounded them. ‘Are you?’
He shook his head, fixed her with a look from those cool eyes. ‘We haven’t even got started yet.’
Hmm.
The path was still steep, but Ferdinand seemed to have got into the pace of the climb and he began telling her how much he had enjoyed his visit to Lucca. She listened to the rhythm of his low voice, hearing the buzz of the insects around them in the background, conscious of the increasing warmth of the sun on her hair and face, the scents of the fragrant herbs that grew on the hillside – lavender and wild thyme. And she realised how much she was enjoying this morning hike with him, this rather strange and definitely secretive visitor to her land. He didn’t belong here – of course he did not belong here – but he seemed to understand the place, he seemed to appreciate its serenity.
‘Did you go to the amphitheatre?’ she asked him. That was her favourite part of Lucca. It had been created in the first century AD for the usual gladiatorial shows and games, and, having been re-built since being abandoned all those centuries ago, it was still quite something.
‘Oh, yes. A fascinating project. I was reading all about it.’ She caught the enthusiasm in his voice.
‘Project?’
‘Mid-nineteenth century. The architect Lorenzo Nottolini had the old buildings of the ancient arena pulled down, and the inner area, with a slightly adjusted profile, became the present day piazza. It’s ingenious – and stunningly effective.’
Isabella was impressed. ‘You found out a lot in one day, Ferdinand.’
He gave a modest shrug. ‘Just naturally interested in the architectural aspect.’
‘Being in that line of work yourself,’ she added.
‘Exactly.’ He gave her a rather strange look, and Isabella had the distinct feeling that he was about to say more. But yet again he held back.
She sighed. ‘And what did you make of the amphitheatre from a professional point of view?’
‘An excellent job.’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘There was music playing and the acoustics were amazing . . .’ He broke off as if words were not sufficient to describe the experience.
She smiled and nodded. She understood perfectly. She could hear in his voice how much he loved her country – despite his holding back. And that gave her a feeling of contentment. She didn’t question the reasons why – not now. She just held on to it.
‘Tell me some more about this trail,’ Ferdinand asked her as they passed another pink shrine. Although the light was now so much sharper, he was still speaking softly, as if he didn’t care to rupture the delicate atmosphere of the morning.
‘It was originally used by the Vernazzan fishermen,’ she told him. ‘It was a link with the hinterland. And then the mule track became Via Crucis with all these colourful chapels – I have no idea when.’
‘Did your family ever come here for sanctuary?’
‘During the war years, yes.’ Though here they were entering dangerous territory. ‘The whole village came here. It was a refuge from the bombing, you know.’
Abruptly, he stopped walking. ‘I love this place, Isabella,’ he told her.
She knew it. She had recognised it in his voice and now she could see it in his eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘But I know my country was responsible for much of the destruction and hard times your people experienced during the war.’
Isabella hesitated. Was it really so simple? She thought of Giovanna – she would say that no, it wasn’t. ‘In part,’ she agreed.
Ferdinand kicked at a stone on the pathway. He looked so miserable that Isabella reached out and put her hand lightly on his arm. His skin was warm and golden from the sun. ‘But hasn’t it always been that way throughout history?’ she continued. ‘Men of all nationalities’ – and hardly ever women, she silently added – ‘obsessed with power, greedy for control, trying to take over another man’s land?’ She spread both hands now, the gesture encompassing the stony path, the gnarled olive trees, the sapphire blue sea below. ‘We can hardly blame an entire nation.’
‘I suppose not.’ Though he looked doubtful.
‘We’re all European now.’
‘Yes, we are.’ But he still sounded very serious.
Isabella wanted to take his frowning expression and fling it into the ocean. They had survived the war, had they not? People had died, but people always died. It was the cycle of life. ‘And in Italy, we try to forgive and forget.’ She nudged him. ‘Life is for living, no? It is for enjoying the sun and the warmth, the food and the laughter.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ And at last he smiled.
‘And it is for walking up to the sanctuary,’ she reminded him. ‘Come.’ They might not be religious pilgrims, but she and Ferdinand were pilgrims of a sort; everyone was.
He shot her another of those appraising looks that she was getting rather used to. ‘Isabella,’ he said, ‘how on earth did you get to be so wise?’
She gave a little smile. ‘From the women in my family,’ she told him. ‘They are wise without even having to try.’
Finally, they reached the avenue of trees that led to the Madonna di Reggio. The sanctuary was situated in a large piazza of stately elms and ancient spread-eagled oaks, with benches placed for weary travellers in the dappled shade beneath. It was quite a spectacle, and Isabella was once again gratified by Ferdinand’s audible gasp. ‘We are now 310 metres above sea-level,’ she informed him. ‘Well done!’
He glanced at her rather sharply from the corner of his eye, but he was still smiling. ‘It is a fabulous place.’
‘And wait till you see the view.’
They passed the marble sarcophagus that collected water from a gargoyle set in a grotto of seashells, and Ferdinand took still more photos. Isabella suspected that she would be within the frame of many of them, but she didn’t mind, it wasn’t hard to keep smiling. ‘How old is this?’ he asked.
Isabella shrugged. ‘They found it by accident,’ she said, ‘when a tree came down in a storm. The church was built in the eleventh century, but it seems likely that this was an old site of worship.’
He nodded. ‘It certainly looks that way.’
She led them further through the wooded piazza where the sharp shadows of the trees cut through the morning sunlight and not another human figure was to be seen. They came to the chu
rch and peeked inside to admire the pretty painted ceiling and the marble pillars. The church possessed an air of sweet simplicity that Isabella had always loved. She remembered the first time she had hiked here with her grandmother – she was only about seven, she supposed, but even then, the shrines on the pathway, the old chapel, this sanctuary . . . The atmosphere, the sense of history, the strength of her people’s beliefs – these had all fascinated her.
‘Most of the locals are still very attached to the sanctuary,’ she told him. ‘We have a festival in August when a procession leaves from Vernazza for the Holy Mass.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Plus a massive village picnic, of course.’
He laughed. ‘Any excuse for a party?’
‘You can bet your life.’
‘Though it also shows what a strong community you still have here,’ he added. ‘Despite people moving away to the cities, despite tourism.’
‘We do. In summer people let out rooms, in winter they shut their doors, and in spring they open their arms out once more to the world.’
They strolled over to an ancient oak with a seat underneath at the top of the piazza to sit in the shade and admire the view. Isabella looked out over the coastline she loved: the green-cloaked mountainside, the terraced olives and vines and dazzles of yellow that were the lemon trees, the vast teal-green ocean. She could see the boats in the sea down far below, drifting in and out of sight like ghostly apparitions. Both of them were silent for a minute or two, just taking in the beauty of the scene.
‘Most of the locals are still staunch Catholics, I suppose?’ Ferdinand asked her. He sat down on the bench and she followed suit. Next to him – but not too close this time.
‘Especially the older generations.’ Isabella had been brought up Catholic, of course, but she had never let its rules dominate her life even while she appreciated the values that most religions were built on. Family values, being a good neighbour, trying your best to be fair and honest . . . She sneaked a sideways glance at Ferdinand. Definitely not stealing other people’s paintings – these were the values that had always bonded her family and the community in which they lived, and these were the values by which she tried to live her life, just as her parents and her grandmother had before her.
‘It’s so peaceful up here,’ he said. ‘There’s that sense of being on top of the world. I can see why they wanted to build a sanctuary on this spot.’
Isabella nodded. Peaceful it might be, but there was one thing that she could not put from her mind any longer. She still needed some answers. ‘But, tell me about the painting, please,’ she began.
‘Painting?’ Those blue eyes were all innocence.
‘Last night?’ She poked him in the ribs. ‘Luca Bordoni’s Gabriel.’
‘Ah yes.’ He looked rather shamefaced. He leaned back against the broad trunk of the oak tree and let out a small sigh.
Isabella had no sympathy. ‘Why were you so interested in it?’ She held up a hand before he could speak. ‘And please don’t give me any more of that rubbish about how a painter catches the light or how you wanted to examine the frame.’
‘Well—’
She stopped him again. ‘And don’t try to tell me that you don’t want to talk about it either, like you did in Sestri Levante.’ An image flashed into her head: Ferdinand Bauer stooping to kiss her. She blinked fiercely and it was almost gone.
‘It’s not easy, Isabella,’ he said softly.
Outside the shade of the oak tree, the morning sun had strengthened, creating a haze of warmth that seemed to surround them. The occasional insect buzzed lazily by, a leaf stirred in the faintest of breezes, a bird let out a snatch of song. ‘Life isn’t easy,’ she reminded him – a frequent riposte of her mother’s when Isabella was young.
‘Very true.’ He gazed past her and down towards the sea, which was smooth and shiny, ruffled only by the occasional fringe of foamy water. His expression was thoughtful – and sad. ‘What must it have been like, Isabella?’
So – was this a rhetorical question now? ‘What must what have been like, Ferdinand?’
‘Living in an occupied town during such a war? So much horror amongst so much beauty.’
So that was it. The subject was still on his mind – even amidst this serenity. And she supposed that it was natural – given the reason for his coming to Vernazza in the first place – for Ferdinand to brood. Up here, there was a sense of distance from the town, but also a feeling of protection; the sanctuary seemed to cradle Vernazza in its very palm. ‘It was very hard,’ she said. No point in lying about it, not now. And she herself had been quizzing Giovanna about it only the other day. It seemed that period of the past was currently on everyone’s mind. ‘There was no food and also no freedom. Men were being forced to fight or flee. I can’t imagine the horror of it. Can you?’ She turned to him.
He shook his head. Now, he was looking even more serious than before. ‘My father spoke about it – not often, but certainly before I came here. I know it was different for him than it was for your people, he must have had food and a modicum of comfort.’ He sighed. ‘But I also know how much he hated it. How he longed for the war to be over. For things to go back to normal, I suppose.’
Isabella could see that too. Men were men, whichever army they were fighting for. There were good men and bad men. They all had their hopes and dreams. ‘What happened to him when the war ended?’ she asked.
Ferdinand shrugged. ‘He did what he had to do to survive. He left Italy when he was told to leave Italy. He went back to Germany. He lived an ordinary life. One day, he met my mother – she thought it was too late for her to have children, but no, it turns out that it was not.’ His eyes met hers. ‘And here I am.’
And here he was indeed. Isabella was the first to look away. She looked down at the pale flagstones on the ground where puddles of sunlight were framed by the deep shade from the boughs and leaves of the oak tree. It was an emotionally understated story, but it moved her. She looked back at Ferdinand – he had closed his eyes for a moment and so it was safe. The way he spoke moved her. She loved watching the mobility of his face, the changing expression in his eyes, and listening to the fluent formality of his English. Most of all, she liked watching his mouth. His lips were full and sensual, the bottom lip narrower than the top. His teeth were even and white, but one of the eyeteeth was a little crooked and she quite liked this imperfection.
He opened his eyes and Isabella gave a little start of surprise. She forced herself back to the subject in hand. Best stay on course, she reminded herself. ‘But your father asked you to come back here to Vernazza,’ she pressed. ‘Why did he do that?’
‘Guilt?’ He reached out to brush a tendril of hair from her face and she half-closed her eyes, shocked at the desire that shot through her from just this one small intimate gesture.
‘For what exactly?’ she whispered. Because – what had he done?
‘He felt bad about his part in it all – even though he had no choice at times.’
‘Mmm.’ She could see the logic in that. It was a bit like survivor’s guilt, she supposed. It wasn’t Karl’s fault that he was there – he hadn’t asked to be part of any war.
He leaned forwards, his arms resting on his knees. ‘And I told you about how he wanted to make amends.’
‘Yes.’ She frowned. ‘But how can he do that?’ Was there some local family perhaps who had been affected by something that had happened? Did he want to give them money? The villagers of Vernazza would be far too proud to accept that.
‘Isabella.’ He took off his straw hat and put it down on the bench on the other side of him. He pulled the rucksack off too and put it on the ground by his feet. A dart of sunlight illuminated his fair hair and she could see the sweat glistening on his forehead.
‘Yes?’
‘You ask so many questions.’
‘Yes.’ And she was still waiting for some answers.
He leaned back again and looked through the leaves of the oak tree up to t
he sky. Then back to Isabella again. ‘May I ask why you want to know? About my father? About what he did or did not do? About how he feels and why I am here?’
‘And about your interest in the painting,’ she added to the list.
‘Yes – and about my interest in the painting.’ He gave an exasperated laugh.
‘Because I want to know . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Who you are.’ She hadn’t meant to say this. She’d intended to say something glib and half jokey. Keep it light, Isabella . . . But it was the truth, and so why not say it? She wanted to know who Ferdinand Bauer really was. Was he a bad guy or was he a good guy? That was what it came down to in the end.
‘Why?’ He wasn’t going to let her get away with that so easily. And his eyes hadn’t left her face.
Because I like you, she thought. Because you’ve charged into my life, a life I was in total control of thank you very much, and you’ve made me wonder. About who I am, about what I want out of life, about who I want. But to say all that, would be going much too far. So, she said nothing and merely gave the tiniest shrug of the shoulders. Because if he didn’t at least sense some of what she was feeling . . . And it was time for him to take the lead surely?
The silence between them was suddenly so intense that Isabella was sharply aware of her breath, his breath, and even the breath of the almost imperceptible breeze. It was magical. Who could break this spell?
He reached out and drew her closer. He held her chin and he kissed her. It wasn’t just a brush of the lips this time. It was an exploratory kiss, a sort of Am I allowed to do this? kind of a kiss; at first tentative and then more confident, more sure. He smelt of the landscape they’d just walked through – dry-stone walling and the bitterness of olives – as if the land had almost become a part of him. And he tasted good: slightly minty and slightly salty at the same time. Definitely good.
They drew apart and stared at one another. Isabella was shocked at herself. She hadn’t intended that to happen. She glanced sideways at the sanctuary. Wasn’t this sacred land? Should she really be here, kissing a stranger? It was very nice though.