The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  ‘I’d like to tell you more, Isabella,’ he said earnestly. ‘You don’t know how much I want to tell you everything.’

  Then do it, she thought. ‘So?’

  ‘But I can’t.’

  Right at this second, Isabella wasn’t sure that she cared. Right at this second – sacred place or not – she rather wanted him to kiss her again.

  He bent closer. ‘Do you trust me?’

  ‘No,’ she said. But she guessed the desire was still burning in her eyes.

  ‘Oh, Isabella.’ He pulled her closer.

  She wound her arms around his neck. She loved the feel of him – the taut leanness of his shoulders, the jut of his shoulder blades through the T-shirt, the touch of his lips, stronger and more passionate now. So, he was leaving soon. So, he was a thief. So, his father had committed war crimes – maybe.

  She couldn’t help herself. There were lots of things she should be doing, probably lots of things she should be saying too. But she’d rather stay here kissing him – all day long.

  CHAPTER 27

  Elene

  Elene was baking – for breakfast and lunch. In the hotel, breakfast continued until ten-thirty and so was rather a conveyor belt affair, in order for everything to be fresh from the oven. But, ah . . . Their guests were on holiday – why shouldn’t they relax and take their day at a slower pace? Elene was in an unusually tolerant frame of mind.

  She added the remaining flour, salt, olive oil and rosemary to the yeast mixture that had already been warming for half an hour – making a start on the focaccia for lunch. Baking bread was a slow process, and this was one of Elene’s specialities – a crispy, olive-oil crusted kind of focaccia with a soft puffy interior and a fragrance of rosemary to die for. She loved the process of making it – the kneading, the stretching of the dough to fit the pan, roughing it up with finger holes, adding a few simple ingredients – perhaps tomatoes and olives, or just rosemary, the final sexy drizzle of the olive oil, and a splash of salty water. Hot out of the oven, there was nothing quite like it.

  Febe was making the crema for the next batch of cornetti – to Elene’s exclusive recipe; the brioche pastry laminated with butter to be shaped into perfect crescents – and so Elene had to keep an eye on this too. But she could tell from the sweet vanilla scent rising from the pan that Febe had got things right. A good cook should trust her instincts.

  Elene inserted the dough hook and began to knead the focaccia dough. Ten minutes would do it; it should be soft, supple and sticky. This morning she had started off by making a farinata – this was comfort food at its best in Elene’s opinion, a dish saturated with memories, tradition, and nostalgia. The farinata was already baking and she could smell its delicious toasty fragrance. Crisp and golden on the top, soft and moist on the inside, this thin savoury chickpea pancake should be eaten straight from the oven, plain or with either onion or stracchino cheese, and when Silvio was around, it generally was.

  Marco popped his head around the swing door just as Elene was wondering where everybody had got to this morning. By now her mother and daughter were usually both sitting at the table, heads together, drinking espresso and comparing notes in that way they had that seemed to exclude anyone else who might be around. Elene kneaded the dough with a touch more ferocity. ‘Hi,’ she called. ‘Va bene, Marco?’

  ‘Have you seen Isabella?’ Marco peered around the kitchen. He was a sweet young man, and Elene suspected he had his eye on her daughter. But she doubted that Isabella was interested in the poor lad, he wouldn’t have enough about him to challenge her.

  ‘Not yet.’ Elene continued working the dough. ‘But she must be around somewhere.’ Isabella was always up and around early. ‘Is there a problem?’ She sniffed. ‘Febe?’ she called. ‘Have you checked the last batch of pastries?’

  ‘Sì, sì.’ Febe left her pan of crema and grabbed an oven glove.

  ‘Not really. I only wanted to ask her about this order for cleaning materials.’

  Elene clicked her tongue. Cleaning materials? Couldn’t he see that she was busy? Surely breakfast was a lot more important than cleaning materials? ‘Is she in the office?’ She glanced around to see Febe whisking the cornetti out of the oven. The crescents were the same size and shape and perfectly golden. She nodded approval.

  With a predictability Elene had now got used to, Silvio chose that precise moment to come in through the back door. ‘Mmm.’ He rubbed his stomach. ‘Are those fresh pastries I can smell?’

  ‘And going straight out to the dining area for the early birds,’ Elene told him. ‘Rosalie! Service per favore.’

  ‘No, she’s not in the office.’ Marco frowned. ‘I can’t find her anywhere.’

  ‘Isabella?’ Silvio pulled off his boots and grabbed a pastry from the tray as Febe carried it to the hatch. ‘She said something yesterday about going for an early morning hike.’

  ‘Coffee?’ Elene nodded to Febe. ‘Could you make Silvio a quick espresso, please, Febe?’ An early morning hike? She turned to Silvio. ‘Who did she say she was going with?’

  He shrugged. ‘She didn’t.’

  Elene returned to her dough. ‘And you didn’t ask?’ She shook her head in despair. Why did men never ask the right questions? ‘Better see my mother about the cleaning materials then,’ she told Marco, ‘or wait till Isabella gets back.’ What was she supposed to do? She had a kitchen to run.

  Febe took the coffee to Silvio and he sat down at the table. ‘Anything else to eat?’ he asked, as if he was half-starved, poor man.

  ‘The next lot of cornetti will be out in five minutes, farinata in ten,’ Elene informed him. ‘Febe, you can roll out the next lot now.’ After the dough had rested for the fourth time, it must be rolled out into a circle. The circle must then be made into four sections and each section into five isosceles triangles. It was a delicate operation. Febe should end up with twenty triangles. Each triangle must then be rolled and stretched on to itself with the thinner tip tucked under each crescent so it didn’t come apart during baking.

  ‘What about the focaccia?’ asked Silvio.

  Mamma mia! ‘It’s for lunch.’ She sprinkled some flour on to the marble counter and turned out the dough.

  Elene’s mother came into the kitchen looking as she did when she was going on an outing. She was wearing a tailored jacket and a different shade of lipstick. ‘Good morning.’ She smiled brightly at everyone, but the smile seemed forced; there was something brittle about her manner that worried Elene – it was as if at any moment she might snap.

  ‘Do you know where Bella has got to, Mamma?’ she asked her. She kneaded the dough just a little more. ‘Silvio says she’s gone on a morning walk. That’s not like her, is it? Do you know who she might have gone with?’

  Her mother frowned. ‘One of her friends from the village perhaps?’

  Hmm. Elene began to form the dough into a ball. The accustomed, repetitive movements were soothing. She glanced around to see how Febe was getting on with the next batch of cornetti. Traditionally breakfast wasn’t a huge meal here in Liguria; most Italians grabbed a pastry while drinking espresso at the counter of a busy bar, devouring it with gusto rather than savouring it. But she was catering for all nationalities here at The Lemon Tree Hotel, and Elene liked to make it special. ‘Where are you off to, Mamma?’ The cornetti were under control and looking good. ‘Coffee for my mother please, Febe?’

  ‘Oh, I can get it myself.’ But she looked exhausted, and had huge bags under her eyes.

  Elene didn’t like it. She cleaned the mixing bowl under the tap and dried it with a tea towel. ‘Mamma?’

  ‘Pisa.’

  ‘Oh.’ That was unusual. ‘You didn’t say.’ Elene greased the bowl with a drizzle of olive oil and then replaced the ball of dough, turning it so that it was coated with the oil. She must refill this bottle from the demijohn, it was getting low. Usually if her mother was going out anywhere, she gave everyone plenty of notice, spent forever organising the roster, couldn’
t believe that the place could possibly still be standing when she returned.

  ‘I told Isabella.’

  Febe took over a plate of cornetti, and her mother and Silvio both helped themselves.

  ‘Yes, I suppose that you did.’ Elene covered the bowl loosely with greased plastic film and opened the warming oven. In an hour the dough should double in size.

  ‘Come and sit down, Elene.’ Silvio patted the seat next to his. He gave her a warning look. She knew what he was saying. Don’t mind so much. Why do you always mind so much?

  ‘Why are you going to Pisa?’ Elene asked instead. She could feel the tolerant mood of early morning beginning to dissipate into the stress of the day.

  ‘Oh, you know . . .’ Her mother looked evasive. She took a bite of her pastry. ‘Mmm, delicious, Febe, well done.’

  Febe beamed.

  ‘No, I don’t.’ That was why she had asked.

  ‘Shopping . . . A new dress perhaps?’ Her mother wiped her mouth delicately with a napkin.

  ‘Ah.’ She didn’t believe that for a second. Elene turned away, busied herself taking the farinata out of the oven. It was crisp in all the right places and it smelt delicious. ‘Will you see Papà?’

  ‘Oh, yes, maybe.’ She caught Elene’s eye. ‘Yes, I’m sure that I will.’

  Elene felt again that protective instinct that she had felt before. Her mother had always seemed so invincible. And yet now . . . There was something different about her, something that concerned Elene and at the same time made her feel that she needed to help her mother in some way. To put a stop to this unaccustomed sensation, she went over to the machine to make herself a coffee. A strong bitter espresso should do the trick. Because she had done the right thing – hadn’t she? When she had begged her mother to stay with her father? She had done the right thing surely, when she made her mother promise? Even if Silvio was right and she had wanted her mother to choose – it had been the right choice, had it not, for her to stay with Papà?

  She packed the coffee in firmly and tapped the top of it for good measure. She inserted it into the machine and gave a sharp twist. Looking up, she noticed that Silvio was watching her. Ah Silvio . . . Lately, he seemed to have developed the skill of seeing into her mind, and it was most disconcerting. If it had indeed been the right choice – had it been right for whom? Herself, yes, and probably Isabella too. But had it been the right choice for her mother? After all, she might indeed have walked into a door. And if not? Had she ever considered that her mother and her father might have been unhappy all these years?

  As she turned, her mother got to her feet. ‘I’ll be leaving in about an hour,’ she said. ‘I just need to see to a few things in the office before I go.’

  Elene nodded, watched her leave the room, not quite as confidently or elegantly as usual.

  ‘So,’ said Silvio.

  ‘So, what?’ Elene put her hands on her hips.

  ‘We are left to our own devices.’ Silvio sat back in his chair. He had demolished at least four cornetti and a large slice of farinata.

  ‘Hmm.’ It was, she thought, too good an opportunity to miss. ‘I wonder if Signor Bauer has come down for breakfast yet?’

  ‘Huh?’

  She leaned closer. ‘Perhaps you should go and find him, Silvio.’

  ‘Find him?’ He reached out for another pastry and she slapped his hand.

  ‘With Bella and my mother out of the way it would be a good time for him to look around, take stock of the place, maybe take a few measurements . . .’

  He stared at her. ‘You said it would only be a few rough sketches.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but he may want to do more than that. Who knows?’ She remembered what she’d said to him – who knows where it might lead?

  ‘I don’t know, Elene.’ Silvio was always on her side, only now he seemed reluctant.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘They won’t like it.’

  ‘They won’t know.’

  ‘It feels wrong.’

  ‘You’re scared.’

  ‘No.’ He grabbed her wrist. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, that’s all, Elene.’

  She felt a stab of guilt. Was she betraying her family? Was that what he was saying? Of course not. She was helping the hotel, doing something that would benefit them all in the long run. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’ She whipped off her apron. Lunch preparations could wait. The question now was – where was the Signor Ferdinand Bauer?

  CHAPTER 28

  Chiara

  Chiara alighted the platform at Pisa Centrale. The station was light, modern and airy; a world apart from Vernazza. She made her way with determination towards the exit. She didn’t want to be here. It wasn’t anything to do with the city itself. Pisa did not have the charm of Florence, it was true – but then again, the culture of this city had not been as protected during the Second World War as that of Florence, despite the glories of the Camposanto frescoes and the many other art treasures it held. Her father had told her that after the war, Pisa was a skeleton of its former self; she had never fully recovered from the mines, the bombings, the destruction of her bridges. For a time, he told Chiara, the streets and piazzas were empty and Pisa was a dead town; even after the Liberation in September 1944, long-range artillery had continued to pound the city for three weeks or more.

  It was all so hard to imagine. She walked through the terminal past the departure and arrival boards, the familiar paintings by Daniel Schinasi and the biglietteria, as the loudspeaker system blared its announcement of the next train arriving at Platform 1. There was an air of smooth efficiency about the terminal – trains were something else the Italians were good at, she reflected.

  For Chiara, away from the obvious tourist attractions of the Leaning Tower and the rest of the Square of Miracles, Pisa was a charming city. And she knew it well. She came here when she wanted to go clothes shopping or to browse the galleries when she was feeling a bit stir-crazy. It happened – though Elene and the others would not believe it. She loved The Lemon Tree Hotel and Vernazza, but still, she needed to get away sometimes. She loved wandering through the monumental cemetery that was the Camposanto, and never tired of looking at those fourteenth-century frescoes her father had talked of – the Camposanto’s cool interior and pitted marble slabs seemed to tell such a complex story. Chiara also had an old schoolfriend here, Delfina, who had moved from Vernazza some years ago.

  ‘I don’t know how you can stay in that sleepy little place,’ Delfina would say to Chiara from time to time. ‘There’s nothing there.’

  Nothing but tourism, she meant – even then. But the landscape that drew the tourists in was what Chiara also adored: the wild mountains, the terraced olive groves and vineyards, the romantic coves that were stamped into her heart.

  She stepped outside. But no, this morning it wasn’t the thought of visiting Pisa that was making her bite her lip with anxiety – it was what she might find here. It was another warm early autumn morning; good for the grape-picking, she found herself thinking. Isabella had been up in the mountains this morning when everyone had been looking for her – it turned out, she had walked to the sanctuary with Ferdinand Bauer. Chiara frowned. And from the look on her flushed face when she got back it hadn’t been a religious pilgrimage taking place. Chiara had to admit there was something charming about the young man, but still she worried. Who exactly was he, and why was he here? He didn’t appear to be merely a tourist. Isabella was so young, so innocent despite the air of confidence she wore. Chiara would do everything she could to protect her.

  She made her way over the decorative paved cobbles towards the fountain. A few people sat on the stone benches drinking take-out coffee. Occasionally too, Chiara had arranged to meet Alonzo here in Pisa, but over the past ten years, it had become more and more his haunt, and consequently it no longer attracted her in quite the same way. Pisa had become part of their separateness; acknowledged as his territory. Enough . . .

  She paus
ed by the cool fountain. She had the address written on a scrap of paper in her purse, but she knew the way; she’d looked it up before she came. It was only five minutes’ walk from the station – the most insalubrious places often were. And so, she ignored the tree-lined road ahead, which she would usually take on her way to Via Roma, and instead turned right and down a side street where everything looked rather uncared for. Tired cars were parked in the road, litter strewn in gutters. The shutters of the apartment buildings were rusty, balconies were crammed with rubbish, and there was a general air of poverty hanging over the place. Alonzo’s apartments couldn’t be here, surely? Chiara fumbled in her bag for her purse to find the scrap of paper. Until Signora Conti’s visit, she had imagined them to be smart and clean, attracting the professionals who worked in the city.

  She could have waited at the hotel to see Alonzo, who had sent her a message saying he was returning to Vernazza tomorrow. She hadn’t told him that actually she was coming here today. When it came to it, she might not even see him. But if she did, she wanted surprise to be on her side. She could have told him about their visitor, the rather brash Signora Conti. She could have listened to his explanations, his excuses. But she had chosen not to. Chiara found the address and checked the numbers in the street. It was further on. Some of the blocks had been modernised after all – presumably, Alonzo’s was one of these.

  In fact, as she walked, she could hear Alonzo already; recognise the tone of his voice – defiant, bordering on angry. She might easily have believed what he told her, accepted what he said, agreed that yes, this was his business not hers, put it out of her mind and continued running The Lemon Tree Hotel just as she always had. Signora Conti wouldn’t come back – so, why not?

  But instead, here she was. She passed a dimly lit café, gloomy in spite of the bright morning outside. A woman brushed past her, carrying a huge plastic laundry bag. And now, here was a shop window entirely covered in faded newspaper. Chiara had come here, because there had been something about that woman that had got to her. She must have been desperate to make the journey to Vernazza, to come to the hotel, to plead her mother’s case. And so, the least Chiara could do was keep her own promise, to come here to see for herself.