The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  ‘Nonna?’

  ‘She’s on her way here.’

  ‘What happened to me, Mamma?’ Isabella turned and looked into her mother’s eyes. ‘I fell, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you slipped on the pavement, we think.’ Her mother winced. ‘It was chaotic, by all accounts. Someone grabbed you and pulled you into the bar. I haven’t had time to find out who. People were sheltering there.’

  ‘Sheltering?’

  ‘From the mudslide. It was taking away everything in its path, you see. Bins, chairs, tables, cars even.’

  Isabella stared at her. She remembered it now – the brackish-brown torrent of mud and water roaring like a monster, moving like a living creature, sucking up the town. What would have happened if no one had pulled her into the bar? Would she simply have been swept away and drowned in a sea of mud? She shuddered.

  ‘Hush, darling.’ Her mother stroked her hair. ‘You’re safe now.’

  ‘Was there . . .’ Isabella frowned ‘. . . much damage?’

  Someone swore softly and Isabella realised her father was at her bedside too. ‘Papà?’

  He came around to take her other hand. ‘Vernazza is all but destroyed,’ he said. ‘The mud, the rocks, the water, the debris . . . It all swept down from the mountains and raged through the town, burying it four metres deep. It wasn’t just one mudslide my love, there were a lot more.’

  Isabella struggled to take this in. ‘But . . .’

  ‘You mustn’t worry.’ That was her mother now. ‘You had a bad knock to the head and a few cracked ribs, otherwise just cuts and bruises. You’re getting better, everything will be fine.’

  ‘But Vernazza?’ Isabella could hardly believe it. There had been landslides before, but nothing like what her father had just described.

  ‘Yes, it is a terrible thing,’ her mother acknowledged. ‘But people are coming together and working to make good. Volunteers have been helping those who were trapped in their houses on the top floors. Foreign visitors have been evacuated in boats already.’ She squeezed Isabella’s hand again. ‘We will rebuild the town. We still have our spirit, and we can recover. It can be done.’ She looked over at Isabella’s father and let out a small sigh. ‘But you mustn’t think of it now. You must only think about resting and getting better, my darling.’

  ‘Was anyone hurt – badly hurt?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps. It’s all been a bit muddled and confused. A few people are missing. No one really knows yet.’

  ‘The gas . . .’ She could remember the overpowering sickly-sweet smell of it. It was almost the last thing she did remember.

  ‘The town’s five-hundred-gallon propane tank was ripped off the hillside,’ her father told her. ‘The whistling noise it made was unbelievable – it went down into the town while it was still spewing gas.’

  ‘I remember that whistling noise,’ she whispered.

  ‘There, my darling, don’t think of it now. Silvio . . .’ her mother broke in.

  But Isabella wanted to know everything. ‘And the hotel?’ She could feel a sense of panic flying through her now.

  ‘The hotel survived.’ Her mother reached over to put a cool palm on her forehead. ‘You’re hot. I should call a nurse . . .’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Isabella felt a flicker of irritation. But the town . . .

  ‘We weren’t in the direct pathway of the mudslide,’ her father explained. ‘There was some power loss and telephone lines have been down. The railway station is out of action too of course, for the moment at least. But no damage to The Lemon Tree to speak of.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’ Isabella closed her eyes and then opened them again. ‘Ferdinand,’ she said.

  ‘Ferdinand?’ Once again, her mother looked at her father. That wasn’t a good sign. Isabella would have expected him to be here too.

  ‘He hasn’t been here to see me?’

  ‘He checked out, my darling, don’t you remember?’ Her mother patted her hand.

  ‘After the landslide?’ Isabella was confused. She didn’t remember. And she would remember that, surely?

  ‘Before.’

  ‘Ah.’ Which was why he hadn’t been to see her. Like Nonna, he probably couldn’t get through. He would be in Germany by now. Did he even know about the landslide? Had it been bad enough for the news to have reached other countries? Isabella shifted in the narrow hospital bed. She felt clamped down by the sheets, imprisoned by them. But something was bothering her about this. That was it. She certainly did remember. And he hadn’t said goodbye. ‘But did he leave a note for me? A message?’

  ‘I don’t believe so, darling.’ Her mother frowned. ‘Are you certain you didn’t know he was leaving?’

  ‘No.’ And he hadn’t said goodbye. How could he have left without saying goodbye?

  ‘What does it matter?’ her father growled. ‘We have other things to think of now, you know.’

  Isabella felt a tear crawl from her eye.

  ‘I’m sorry, my darling.’

  She couldn’t bear to see the pity in her mother’s eyes. Her mother knew that it mattered. She understood. Isabella sighed. Nonna had been right then. Ferdinand had come here for his own reasons – or for his father’s reasons, she should say. He had got what he came for, and now he had left – without a word to her. He had used her and then discarded her. He hadn’t ever trusted her – that was the truth. This explained why he had created a distance between them after they had uncovered the painting of the Last Supper – he had detached his emotions; she had not been mistaken about that. And now Vernazza . . . Another tear crept out from under her closed eyelids. And now her beloved Vernazza was destroyed, and nothing would ever be the same again.

  CHAPTER 51

  Elene

  Elene stood to one side so that her mother could sit next to Isabella. Chiara looked exhausted. She had hugged Elene the second she entered the room, a proper big hug that had taken Elene by surprise. It had also felt wonderful though. There was nothing quite like the hug from your mother, the woman who had nurtured you, given birth to you, unconditionally loved you. She wiped away a tear. She was so emotional these days – it looked as if Isabella was going to make a complete recovery, but even so, since the landslide, Elene had felt as if she were riding on an emotional roller coaster, dissolving into tears at the slightest provocation. It really wasn’t like her at all.

  ‘I came as quickly as I could,’ her mother whispered into her hair. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, Mamma.’

  ‘And Silvio? And Aunt Giovanna? The staff?’

  ‘All fine.’

  ‘Va bene.’ She drew away. ‘How is she?’ And now her attention was fully focused on her beloved granddaughter, propped up in the hospital bed, a wan smile on her face.

  ‘Better. She will be fine.’ Elene followed her mother over to Isabella’s bedside.

  ‘Bella.’ She took her hand. ‘Darling, Bella. I leave you for five minutes and what do you do?’

  ‘Nonna . . .’

  Elene smiled as she watched them, her mother and daughter. Why had she ever resented this closeness between the two women she loved best in all the world? She really couldn’t remember. What did it matter? They were all safe, and it didn’t seem important now.

  After half an hour, her mother got to her feet. Isabella was tiring. Clearly, she was ready for some sleep. But she was frowning and she hadn’t let go of her grandmother’s hand.

  ‘You mustn’t worry about anything, Bella,’ Chiara was telling her.

  Isabella half opened her eyes. ‘That’s what Mamma keeps saying.’

  ‘And she is right.’

  Elene caught her mother’s eye as she looked across at her. She gave her a small nod. Isabella hadn’t stopped asking about Ferdinand Bauer, and Elene knew her mother’s views on that subject. She wanted to ease her daughter’s unhappiness, but she didn’t know what to tell her – Elene didn’t know what to make of his sudden departure either. It was a little odd that he had simpl
y left without saying goodbye, and rather a coincidence that it had been on one of the last trains that had departed from Vernazza before the terrible mudslide occurred. But some men could not be trusted, that was the truth.

  Elene was lucky that she had Silvio. He had been her absolute rock since this awful disaster – she didn’t know how she would have managed without him. When they’d realised that Isabella might be down there . . . Silvio had wasted no time. He was a man who would support his family no matter what, and she felt that she was fully appreciating this for the first time. As for love . . . She sniffed, and her mother looked up sharply. Allora, it seemed that love had crept up on Elene, softly, softly. Unless, that is, it had been there all along.

  ‘But so much is destroyed . . .’ Isabella too was crying again. All their emotions were so close to the surface, and it was the same with everyone Elene had spoken to since it had happened. No one could quite believe it. They had survived – at least most of them had survived – but what was left of their town? Silvio and Elene had seen it from their vantage point above. It was a shell of its previous self, barely a muddy whisper of its former beauty.

  Elene took a tissue from the box on the bedside table and gently dabbed her daughter’s eyes. ‘It can be rebuilt,’ she said staunchly. Though already she knew that the task of rebuilding Vernazza would be long, hard, and complicated. Even so, she had seen her people working together to unload emergency supplies on that first day after it had happened, some of them trying to dig out the mud burying Piazza Marconi with their bare hands, and she had witnessed such generosity of spirit that she had felt quite humbled. Because of these things she was sure that Vernazza would survive and rebuild – thanks to the strength of its people, its community.

  ‘Yes.’ Her mother caught her arm and gave it a little squeeze. ‘Vernazza and those who love her will start again. You can start again too, my Bella. Together, we can all come back from this, my love.’

  Elene listened to her words and wondered what they meant. Was she coming back to them, back to The Lemon Tree Hotel? Had her mother found Dante Rossi in England? And if so, what had happened between them?

  *

  The two women had coffee in the hospital café while Isabella was sleeping.

  ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked you to come back,’ Elene said. ‘I suppose I overreacted. I could have waited, at least. I shouldn’t have made you cut short your holiday when you haven’t been away for so long.’ At the time though it was all she had wanted: for her mother to be here, to help her, to support her. Isabella was hurt and it was an instinctive reaction. Elene had been terrified. She hadn’t known how bad it was. Her father had come to the hospital too, of course. He had visited his granddaughter and asked if there was anything he could do. ‘No, Papà.’ She was glad that he had come – but what could any of them do except wait for Isabella to recover?

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Her mother sat up straighter in her chair. ‘Of course you had to let me know what had happened. I would have been furious if you had not.’

  Elene smiled. Her mother furious was not something anyone would want to experience.

  ‘And I would not hesitate for a moment. Naturally I would have come home as soon as I possibly could – even if you had not asked me to.’ She nodded to emphasise her point.

  ‘Thank you, Mamma.’ And she had called it ‘home’. Elene took her hand and squeezed it gently. It was quite something to know that you only had to ask, and that someone – that special someone – would drop everything to be by your side.

  ‘But tell me what happened in Vernazza?’ Her mother’s eyes were sad. ‘How bad is it?’

  Elene began to tell her what she knew and what she had found out since. They were getting more information every day. ‘It began as a severe rainstorm.’ She remembered that morning in the kitchen. She’d been making her buridda. Silvio had come in and . . . She smiled at the memory – though it seemed so long ago. ‘I noticed a strange atmosphere outside. But I thought it was a storm brewing – nothing more.’

  Chiara nodded.

  ‘And then it increased. Within hours the storm was raging. The rain and the wind were so strong – they lifted soil, vines, rocks, all the plants that were growing. Everything gathered together into a massive mudslide that came down in a torrent from the mountain.’

  Chiara shuddered.

  ‘People realised what was happening – but not at first. They ran for shelter, roads were closed, the electricity went down—’

  ‘And Isabella?’

  ‘Isabella happened to be down in Vernazza at the time.’ Elene paused. ‘She hadn’t been quite herself . . .’

  Her mother grimaced. ‘Ferdinand Bauer?’

  ‘I think so.’ But Elene hadn’t really talked to Isabella about it, had she? In many ways she’d been as guilty as her mother before her – of getting on with her own life, of imagining that Isabella was fine, that she’d get over it, that it was just a mild flirtation, a crush, something that would easily pass . . . she hadn’t tried to find out what was wrong.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And she was running for shelter when she slipped in the mud pouring down the street in Via Roma.’

  ‘And hit her head?’

  ‘We think so.’ Although everything had been so noisy and chaotic that they would probably never know for certain.

  ‘And then someone pulled her to safety?’

  ‘Apparently so. The water level was rising inside as well as out. In the cafés, shops, and bars it got to more than half a metre. People had to go up to the next floor to escape it – if they were able to.’

  ‘So the townspeople were trapped inside their own houses?’ Her mother was aghast.

  Elene nodded. ‘Everyone was trapped. It was a complete nightmare. A continuous wave of mud thundering down from the hilltops, carrying everything that stood in its path along with it in a river of mud and rainwater.’ She sipped her coffee. It was more bitter than she preferred, but it still hit the spot. ‘Someone at the hospital took a video from above Via Roma – she showed me. And I saw some of it for myself when we went down to look for Isabella. It was horrendous, Mamma. Cars and trucks being sucked into this muddy brown whirlpool. Rubbish bins, car bumpers, tables, patio umbrellas. And the noise of it! It was like the worst kind of thunder. Entrances and exits were blocked, the water level was still rising, entire buildings were beginning to collapse.’ There had been plenty of time in the last few days to hear the stories – each one more horrific than the last.

  ‘My God, no . . .’

  ‘But, yes. At the Blue Marlin they broke down the back wall of Massimo’s restaurant just to escape the flood up an abandoned set of stairs. Good for Massi, eh – he helped an awful lot of people.’

  ‘It sounds as if he did, oh, Elene . . .’ Chiara shook her head. There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Some people gathered for safety in the gift shop at the station, others were taken to Al Castello. Everyone who can do, has helped out, giving water, food and shelter.’

  ‘Al Castello . . .’ They shared a glance. They both knew that centuries before, villagers from Vernazza had defended themselves from pirate raids in this very building. The irony was not lost on them.

  ‘Many citizens and tourists gathered at the City Hall – apparently they knew already that things were going to get worse. They got food and shelter there. By then it was a case of damage limitation, I suppose.’ She sighed. ‘And then there was more.’

  ‘Another landslide?’

  ‘A worse one.’

  ‘What happened after that?’ her mother whispered. Her face was pale.

  ‘More buildings buried deeper, more buildings collapsing. People must have thought their end had come. It was pitch black by then, of course. Around midnight the rain began to let up and the rescue process began.’

  ‘When did you find Isabella?’ Her mother seemed distraught. She had entirely lost her usual air of calm; her eyes were wide and her hair was in disarray from the nu
mber of times she had torn her fingers through it.

  Elene realised that her mother did not need to know everything. And so. She would not tell her of the woman who had clung to a tree stump wedged in the wall for hours before she was rescued, or of the man who had died in order for his family to be saved. She would not speak of how she and Silvio had left the hotel and gone down as close as they could get to the town. She would not tell her of the hysteria, the panic, nor that they too had brought people up to The Lemon Tree for shelter and safety on higher ground – all the time still searching for their Isabella – searching, hoping, praying that by some miracle she had survived. She would not tell her that Silvio had risked his own life to find his daughter. Her mother could read between the lines – but she did not need to know the worst of it. Elene would protect her from that, at least.

  She told her how, when daylight broke the following day, helicopters were able to fly in to help the search and rescue effort. Trains and boats had stopped operating, and the hiking trails leading to and from Vernazza were blocked. For now, there was no other way in or out. By the next day, boats were able to come in close enough to take people to La Spezia. On that day they found out that Isabella was alive. But that first day after it had happened . . . Elene would not be able to live through those emotions again.

  ‘Thank God you and Silvio were safe.’ Chiara grasped Elene by the shoulders. Her voice trembled. ‘And Aunt Giovanna.’

  ‘And the hotel of course,’ Elene heard herself saying.

  Her mother threw her a reproving glance. ‘The Lemon Tree is just a hotel,’ she said. ‘We must remember that, Elene. We are talking about people here. Our family. Our community.’

  ‘Yes.’ She was right – though Elene had never expected to hear her say it.

  ‘Our community . . .’ Her mother seemed lost in thought for a moment.

  ‘And us,’ Elene said. ‘I’ve been thinking about us.’ Because that was part of it. And she wanted to shake off the resentment. She wanted them all to make a new start, not just Vernazza.