by Rosanna Ley
‘In a while.’ Isabella walked on past the piazza – usually it was full of orange and blue parasols on the tables outside its restaurants and bars, but today the boats were crammed in side by side under their blue and white striped covers, and the tamarisk trees were waving in the wind. Some tourists were still around – but they were all tucked safely inside the bars and the cafés, sheltering from the rain. She passed the strangely deserted beach and harbour and walked on up to the far promontory where the water was glistening on the jetty and rocks and where the sea was choppy and wild.
Some brave souls were sitting high up on the striated layers of rocks watching the sea – whooping as the waves crashed ever closer, as the water spluttered and washed on to the jetty, as the white spray flew up towards them. A couple of young guys she knew were even swimming off the harbour arm where the tourist boats usually came in, diving into the foaming water and allowing the next wave to bring them right up on to terra firma again. She couldn’t help laughing. It was a long-established tradition in Vernazza – and it unquestionably entertained the tourists. As for the two boys – it made them look macho, and they clearly loved the attention. But even they were looking around, assessing the weather and the tide. With a laugh and a joke between them, they grabbed their towels and retreated to the steps that wound towards the castle, Castello Doria, where people were lined up hanging on to the railings, watching the heaving ocean.
Isabella climbed up the slippery rocks to escape the water beginning now to swirl around the paved concrete of the jetty. She loved the freshness of the rain and the way it changed the water in the harbour to a glossy, milky green. Vernazza had its share of winds and storms – this sort of weather was pretty much the norm for this time of year, and she knew it wouldn’t be dangerous. Even so . . . She looked up. The dark clouds were thick and fast-moving in the sky, and the wind was increasing. It looked ominous. Yes, it could be a bad one. It was probably crazy to sit on the rocks and watch the waves, but at the very least it would clear her head.
She stayed as long as she could, even though she was beginning to get wet through. It was cleansing somehow. But as time went by, the rain was becoming heavier and the wind stronger. She realised she’d skipped lunch entirely. The last of the wave-watchers headed for the nearest café, and Isabella followed them. She should get back to the hotel. The tide was rising into a wall of water, and she didn’t want to be swept out to sea by a freak wave – anything was possible on a stormy day like this. It was hard though, even walking down the street. The water level was rising and now she was soaked to the skin. Her teeth started chattering and she realised belatedly that she had stayed out much too long. The storm was going full pelt – she could hardly see in front of her.
Suddenly, everything went crazy. Chairs left outside the cafés began to tumble downhill. People were shouting, screaming, crying with fear. People were panicking, rushing around, diving into doorways and fighting to keep the doors closed and the water out. What had happened? What was going on? Someone grabbed her and, just as they did, she peered through the driving rain and thought she could see . . . No. What looked like a torrent of mud sliding towards her. Getting deeper. Getting thicker. Sliding down the road so fast. It was impossible – wasn’t it impossible? She blinked. There were rocks and debris too – thundering down from the mountainside carrying everything that stood in their path along with them. The noise was deafening. There was the shriek of a whistle. And water. So much water . . . the rush of it filled her head.
Isabella screamed. The lights went out. She could smell gas – sickly sweet. She slipped on the pavement, only it wasn’t the pavement any longer, it was something dark and slippery and alive. There was a whirlpool of water in the entrance to the café, and beyond it a snapshot of the frightened faces trapped inside. And then she was gone and she was down and the smell was in her head – the smell of mud and water and gas – and everything went even blacker than before.
CHAPTER 46
Chiara
Chiara met the owner of the B & B – a cheerful, middle-aged woman with a mop of fair curls and kind blue eyes who introduced herself as ‘Jacqueline Bennet but please call me Jackie’ – and was shown to her room. It was pleasant, light and airy, and had a view down the hill towards the orange sandstone cliffs and pebbles of Chesil Beach.
Chiara thanked her and stood for a few moments alone at the window. From her vantage point, she couldn’t actually see the harbour or the kiosks. But something was still telling her that this was the place. And that same something was tugging at her to take action. This was why she was here. She must walk down there and see. Be brave at last.
She checked her appearance in the mirror, combed her hair – though no doubt the sea breeze would have something to say about that – and carefully re-applied her lipstick. She changed into a pair of well-fitting trousers and flat ankle boots more suitable for this terrain, and tied a silk scarf loosely around her neck. Her jacket was light, but designed to protect her from the cool autumns and winters of the Cinque Terre, and it buttoned up suitably high.
Dante, she thought. She examined her face in the mirror. What would he think when he saw her? How would he react? Did she look any different from how she had looked in Italy? Were there already a few more frown lines after what she had discovered in Pisa, her subsequent separation from Alonzo, the revelations concerning Elene and Silvio’s plans for the renovation of the hotel? She wasn’t sure. It had been a harrowing time. They said that older people became invisible, but Chiara was determined to stave that off for as long as possible. She wasn’t old, not at all, not by any stretch of the imagination. And she hoped she would never be invisible to Dante. He may not have forgiven her for letting him down again – but she believed that he would always see her.
As satisfied with her appearance as she would ever be, Chiara picked up her bag and went downstairs. Jackie had given her a key so she could come and go as she pleased. And now, Chiara couldn’t wait to get out there.
Instead of walking down the road, she turned towards the cliff path, just visible down a narrow, grassy alley. The wind immediately caught at her hair and stung her skin with its autumn chill. Chiara dug her leather gloves from her pockets and pulled them on. The cliff wasn’t high at this point; it was green, and the path dry and stony. The sky was a silvery grey, and the cliff-side opened up into something more like a sloping meadow, with wooden benches planted every few metres, to make the most of the view down to the sea. The water was grey-green and lively, the waves rolling to the shore, their rivulets of white foam seeping into the gravelly sand. The air was fresh and salty. Chiara drew great lungfuls into her chest – it felt as if it had been a long time since she had breathed so fully. It was, she thought, her kind of air.
This path ran on and up to a grassy cliff-top, but Chiara took the downhill slope that led to a concrete promenade above the shoreline of grey rocks and ginger pebbles crumbling into coarse sand. Beyond the next pile of rocks, she could see another beach; concrete steps led down to ground level, and a few people were wandering along by the water’s edge. They were kicking at the sand, throwing balls for their dogs (and what a lot of dogs there were, here in Dorset!) a father and his toddler playing tag with the oncoming waves, the little girl shrieking with delight.
Chiara watched them for a moment, thought of Elene, and smiled. In the days when Elene was young, she and Alonzo had mostly been too busy to play with their daughter down at the shore. And perhaps that was why Elene had become the way she was now – fiercely independent, emotionally distant, seemingly always quick to take offence. But it was so easy to look back and think that one should have done things differently. At the time . . . She sighed.
There were no definitive rules to parenthood, and one was thrown into it within the context of life at that moment. Fighting to keep The Lemon Tree Hotel afloat had taken all her energy; at times it had seemed that it must surely go under. By the time Elene was born, more people had started visiting Cinque
Terre, this was true. But they were coming on day trips from Pisa, Portovenere, La Spezia; they were not staying in Cinque Terre hotels. And when her parents died . . . It had seemed imperative to keep The Lemon Tree going.
Chiara felt a surge of regret. But . . . The Lemon Tree Hotel had seemed the most important thing in her world. She had to make it work. And yet, it was just a hotel, as Dante had always said. Whereas Elene was her daughter. And Dante . . .
She strolled to the edge of the harbour as if she had all the time in the world, as if that man might not be within reaching distance once again. The square harbour was full of boats – fishing vessels, rowing boats, the odd pleasure craft – and lined with these rather quaint old-fashioned kiosks, like beach huts she supposed, that she had glimpsed from the car earlier. The Snack Shack, she read. Rachel’s . . . It was the last week of October, and decidedly chilly, but they still had tables and chairs set up outside, people drinking tea and coffee, and eating ice cream. Ice cream . . .
Chiara looked around her, suddenly sure that Dante might leap out from behind the harbour wall. But no, he would not. It was far too low, and besides, he did not know that she was here. If she wanted to, she could still change her mind, move on, forget this crazy adventure and go home. He would never know that she had even been here. Because she had worked to save The Lemon Tree Hotel for Elene, for her family, for Isabella, and the generations to come; she had worked for her parents’ legacy to live on. She still did.
Dante had threatened all that. He still did.
Gulls were screeching, circling over a fishing boat unloading its catch. Crabs and lobsters in frayed pots were being pulled up on to the harbourside. Ice boxes of shiny grey fish with surprised eyes were being dumped unceremoniously on the ground. The gulls swooped closer, almost grazing the harbour wall, their cries insistent, demanding. Children were crabbing along the jetty, dropping nets into the clear water, filling buckets with shrimps and tiny crabs. More and more, Chiara liked the feel of West Bay. It was down to earth, real and uncompromising. Windy and raw. Not beautiful perhaps, but her sort of place.
She walked along the harbourside. There were more kiosks on the far edge, over the road. Selling fish and chips, seafood, burgers and . . . She stopped so suddenly that a young man wearing headphones and a leather jacket cannoned into her and she had to turn and apologise. ‘Sorry. So sorry. I just—’
‘No problem.’ He raised a hand. His voice was gentle and had that West Country lilt that Chiara had already heard around these parts. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Fine. Thank you.’ She smiled and let him go past. Because she had seen the sign outside the blue and white kiosk. Italian Gelato. She took a few tentative steps forwards. A young couple were just leaving with cones of what looked like chocolate and pistachio. Well of course, you could enjoy gelato at any time of year.
Chiara took a deep breath. She stepped closer. The man behind the counter had his back to her. But he was unmistakeable. Silver and grey hair. Lean and muscular neck and shoulders, though slightly more bent these days than before. A blue shirt, a white apron, blue jeans. He turned. Dark eyes.
‘Hi. What can I—’ He stopped as his eyes met hers. ‘Get you?’ he murmured.
‘Hello, Dante.’ Chiara smiled. He looked so wonderfully familiar, so dear.
‘Chiara,’ he said. ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’
CHAPTER 47
Elene
Elene was in the kitchen that day as usual, making her Buridda – a Genoese secondi of fish stew which was one of her staple autumn recipes.
She chopped the onions, sniffing and turning her head away every so often as she did so. Over the years, she had found ways to lessen the tears – would that it was so easy in life . . . But onions were onions, and there was little you could do about tears. Buridda was worth it – the name was Arabic in origin and it was one of the oldest recipes she knew, originating from medieval times when Arabic merchants had visited the port of Genoa to trade. Back then, it was mainly a meal for the poor of course, since leftovers could be used, and Elene was not too proud to still make the dish in this way.
It was a strange day – there was a peculiar atmosphere in the air – she could feel it, even tucked away in la cucina on her own as she was this afternoon. The day seemed unusually dark, and she had switched on all the lights – maybe it was because it had been raining steadily and there had been so much dry weather of late that they weren’t used to it. But when she’d gone outside with her espresso earlier for a break, the atmosphere had seemed heavy too, with a sense not so much of calm but of premonition. It had been heavily misty. Stormy weather, she concluded, was on its way.
Elene gave a little shiver and moved over to the other counter to chop the celery. This was another technique for avoiding the onions, and it was easy to do on this, one of the increasingly rare occasions that she was on her own in the kitchen. Her mother had been right. The Lemon Tree Hotel was quiet at last. The seemingly endless flow of visitors that had continued from March through to mid-October had thinned now to more manageable levels. Which was a good thing as far as Elene was concerned. Normally she liked to keep busy, but she also relished some relaxation too. And she enjoyed being alone in her kitchen trying out new recipes, revelling in the old – it gave her precious time to think.
She moved back to the onions. They might make her tearful, but they were such perfect globes of glistening white, and they lent such flavour to any dish. Onions were so simple and yet so versatile – they were perhaps one of her favourite ingredients of all time. She closed her eyes for a moment and blinked away the sting of an onion-tear. What then was her mother doing now, all those miles away across the sea in England? Elene sniffed. Had she seen him? She’d said she didn’t know where he lived, but certo she would have found out by now. Elene knew her mother. She would not go all that way on a whim or a whisper. She would have found him for sure.
Elene moved now to the carrots, already peeled and topped and tailed. She preferred them sliced thinly in rounds for this dish, and she had a special knife she used for this. She selected it, took a breath, and moved into action, the repetitive rhythm of the slicing soothing her in some strange way as it always did. Just a holiday, her mother had said. But then she said a lot of things. Elene paused in her slicing. She could see how it was. It was just the three of them now – Elene, Silvio, and Isabella. And that was just fine.
She opened the back door to cut some parsley from the kitchen garden. Goodness, but it was gloomy out here even though for the moment it had stopped raining. The trees in the olive grove seemed to shiver in the shadows and it was hard to believe it wasn’t yet four in the afternoon. Elene looked up towards the terraces and the scarred hillside. The dry-stone walls so important to their agricultural history were not maintained as well as they had once been and so they were more vulnerable at times of heavy rain – without the support of their walls, those terraces could create an avalanche. The Cinque Terre was no longer a land of agriculture – and tourism was responsible for that in part. She bent to cut a handful of parsley and lifted it to her nose to sniff the fragrance, brought out more fully by the rain.
Silvio was sure that Chiara would come back. ‘This place is her life,’ he had said to Elene more than once over the past few days. ‘Your mother would never leave here.’
‘Hmm.’ But Elene couldn’t help but notice that he said ‘this place’ not ‘you’, nor even ‘Isabella’. Her mother might love her family, Elene knew that she did, but Elene still felt unwanted, discarded even. Because what came first – that was the question? That had always been the question.
Just as she was about to go back in, Elene paused. She thought she could hear a sound in the distance – a kind of rumble. Thunder perhaps? She returned to the kitchen and shut the door with some relief as the rain started up again, more persistent now. She was glad that she was not out in it, that was for certain.
She heated some olive oil in a large pan and bega
n to fry the vegetables and herbs. It was comforting. The aroma from the onion, celery and parsley rose enticingly from the pan and, as if he’d been summoned by the intoxication of it, Silvio charged into the kitchen from outside.
‘Don’t forget to wipe your feet on the mat,’ Elene said quickly. Silvio had a habit of not noticing the mud. Probably because he wasn’t the one who cleared it up afterwards.
‘It’s whipping up rough out there,’ Silvio said.
‘I know. Maybe Mamma is having better weather even in England, eh?’ Elene added the sliced anchovies to the pan. The smell of anchovies was unique, and she’d always loved the variety of shiny silvery greys that were available in the market. Sometimes she liked to fry them and serve them in cones da asporto, as a nod to Vernazza street food at its best.
‘Maybe.’ Silvio tugged off his boots. ‘That’s me done for today. Unless there’s anything to see to inside?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Elene stirred the juices.
Silvio came up behind her and clasped her waist. He buried his face in the back of her neck and planted a kiss there.
It tickled. Elene laughed. ‘I’m cooking.’
‘I can tell.’ He didn’t move away. ‘I’m quick like that, you know. Perhaps that’s why you married me.’
‘Perhaps it was.’ Elene could smell the earthiness of him combining with the fragrances emanating from her pan. Normally, she would have pushed him off without further ado. She had pushed him away so often when she came to think about it – because she was too busy or too tense, too angry or too anxious. Now, though . . . She allowed herself a small tilt backwards so that she was resting against him. It had been a long time since she’d been able to relax fully. She closed her eyes – just for a second. Mmm. They wouldn’t be able to do this if they hadn’t been alone in the kitchen.