The Secret Messenger

by Mandy Robotham

  Still, there’s an unsettled air inside me. It’s not Jack, since I know he’s no longer at risk, and I’m so used to the general feeling of life on a knife edge in this war that danger barely registers as anything unusual nowadays. No, this is something different. Tiny bubbles of unease are captive inside me.

  Walking along the blustery waterfront at Giudecca to the vaporetto stop, I finally realise what it is. I need my typewriter. I ache to feel the keys under my fingers, clatter and trip-trap my thoughts onto a blank page, see the type laid down. I imagine my notebook bristling in my handbag, crackling with a desire to work its way out. It might never be read but it’s a rush I need now in my veins – adrenalin of a different sort from the previous night. Still potent but more stable.

  Matteo is surprised to see me on a day when the paper isn’t in production, but I make the excuse of wanting to catch up on some work, and I don my apron out of habit, disappearing into the basement. I must appear needy or grey or both, because – bless her – Matteo’s wife, Elena, follows me down with a steaming bowl of pasta, which I eat while I stare at the blank page and stroke the smoothed keys of my beloved machine. I like to muse that Popsa had it specially made for me, as my fingers fit perfectly into the well of each letter, although I know that’s my own fantasy.

  As with every story I’ve ever written – fact or fiction – it’s the whiteness of the page causing a ripple in my stomach, now that Elena’s offering has seen to my hunger. It’s my turn to fill the white, yawning space. Every writer’s nightmare, I imagine; excitement and dread in equal measure. Luckily, my notebook lights the spark. I edit as I type, the noise muffled by our makeshift sound-proofing and the window closed on my world. I don’t notice, though; soon I’m within Gaia and Raffiano’s lives; their innocent meeting on the Lido before the rolls of Nazi barbed wire force people away from the beauty of its beaches. Swiftly, it develops into the hot, urgent love born of war, when there are so many boundaries that a forbidden passion is only one of many restrictions. Every day of their lives, it seems, carries a threat of some sort, so why not? Why not live instead of just lingering?

  I’m unaware that it’s becoming dusky outside until Matteo comes down, peering into the gloom of my one desk light. He says business is slow and he’s shutting the bar early. The chilly evening air and the dense inner feeling that’s been purged make me forget my lingering fatigue; I feel lighter, less encumbered. I take the vaporetto back to the Zattere waterfront stop, neatly sidestepping the hotel on the front that’s become the base for the Military Police. It’s around eight but I don’t want to go home yet, feeling somehow restless and exhausted in unison, and so I walk towards the Accademia Bridge and over into the large Campo Santo Stefano. There I linger at a table outside one of my favourite cafés over an aperitif, reading my copy of Pride and Prejudice. For the second time in one day, I’m transported out of reality, to a different time and place, to somewhere hearts can be lifted and mended. I know I’m not the first to appreciate the way love transcends time, space and the ugliness of war, but it warms me all the same. Looking at the beauty of the square, however, with the yellowy café lights framing its ancient order, it is almost hard to believe there is so much conflict, with such suffering as we hear on Radio Londra.

  On the page, Mr Darcy is making awkward entreaties to Miss Bennet when a voice cuts into the exchange.

  ‘Good evening, Signorina. You look engrossed.’

  It’s Cristian, and I look up, clearly with an expression of real surprise – so much so that he almost seems to recoil. I worry that I’ve been caught out, having called in sick, though to judge by his expression he doesn’t seem irritated.

  ‘Oh! Evening, Signor,’ I say, bringing my tone up several notches. ‘Yes, just escaping for a few moments. To clear my head.’ I know that he of all people appreciates my meaning, and he nods in response when I hold up the book’s cover.

  He’s wearing what I would describe as a non-work suit – something in a deep blue – and although he’s sporting a tie it seems slightly more casual. There is an extra adornment: a woman hanging onto his arm. She is anything but casual, dressed to impress in high heels and a fur stole, her pout marked in a deep crimson. She tries to smile weakly, but fails. I wonder where she thinks they are going dressed like that, with him so understated. I berate myself then for judging a book by its cover so harshly, then swiftly wonder why I am bothering at all. What do I care where Cristian goes outside of work, or with whom? And I push down a tiny, indistinct niggle inside that says otherwise. Once again, I hate myself for it.

  ‘I’m very glad your headache appears to be better,’ Cristian says, as the woman pulls, though tries not to tug too noticeably, on his arm. In this, she fails again. ‘We’ll leave you to your book. Goodnight, Signorina.’

  And they are gone, and I’m left staring at the words on a page and musing over the strangeness of my day.

  11

  Casting Out

  Bristol, September 2017

  ‘I need to go to Venice,’ Luisa says suddenly, while they are – somewhat ironically – halfway through a bowl of pasta.

  ‘What?’ Jamie almost splutters. He feels sure it’s not the quality of his cooking, or lack of, which prompts Luisa’s outburst. ‘What do you mean? When? What for?’

  He’s not entirely sure why he bothers to ask for reasons, since it’s obvious. They’ve skirted around the subject of The Box since Luisa’s outburst in London, and he has tolerated – or tried to ignore – the time she spends on it. But why else would she want to go to Venice? To find some answers, to quell his wife’s insatiable curiosity. To give her some peace. Of course.

  ‘Um, just for a few days,’ Luisa says hurriedly into her plate. ‘I was thinking fairly soon. Work’s quiet at the moment – I thought I should take the opportunity.’

  In contrast, Jamie chews his pasta slowly. For what seems like an age, it’s the only sound in their orbit.

  ‘Jamie? What do you think?’

  He looks up. ‘Lu, you know I can’t go right now, let alone afford it. I’ve got those two auditions lined up in the next few weeks, and then what if I’m called back—’

  ‘I don’t mind going on my own,’ she says abruptly. Jamie is a seasoned enough actor to know she’s been preparing the line, word for word. He thinks back to when they both went to Venice for an indulgent, romantic weekend. When was that? Three, four years ago? Then, Luisa didn’t think about her family heritage, even though she knew her roots were there. They went as tourists, fed the pigeons in San Marco, rode the waterbus the entire length of the Grand Canal and paid exorbitant prices for coffee outside elegant cafés. It was fun. They walked for miles, talked intensely and made love often. They were in love. These days their relationship feels more like work, which this trip promises to be. He wonders, does he really want to go? And besides, it’s abundantly clear she’s not asking him to.

  ‘Can’t you persuade one of your mates to go with you? It’s not much fun travelling on your own,’ he says, then remembers when he first met Luisa. She’d just returned from six weeks’ backpacking in Africa on her own – sticking to a well-worn trail of travellers, but solo nonetheless. It doesn’t faze her.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she says, almost as if she’s booked her ticket already. Clearly, she was never asking for his approval.

  ‘And what are you going to do once you’re there, Sherlock?’ He’s trying to make light of it and mask the hurt inside.

  ‘Find her,’ she says defiantly. ‘What else? I’m going to find my grandmother, her history – discover what she was really like.’

  Jamie wants to ask: To what end, for what eventual purpose? She’s dead and you can’t even ask her. But that seems petty and futile. It’s plain that Luisa is still grieving, for her mother possibly, but also for what her mother didn’t allow her to have – connection and intimacy. As an only child and with a father largely absent, and then dead by the time she was a teenager, Luisa is grasping at any link with her p
ast. Her relationship with her mother was strained, but it was still a string on which to hang. Now she has nothing.

  Jamie tries to imagine how he would feel if his two brothers and both parents were gone – suddenly not there on the end of a text or the phone. But he can’t. Luisa is an adult, yes, but effectively an orphan at thirty-three. How could he possibly know how she feels? Especially since she won’t confide in him, preferring to invest her thoughts within those scraps of paper. Her fervour and her grief as she sinks into that box and the promises within are obvious, and Jamie has little choice but to pray that the attic hasn’t been hiding a painful Pandora’s Box.

  12

  Opening Up

  Venice, late March 1944

  Cristian isn’t at his desk when I arrive for work the morning after our short encounter in Santo Stefano. For some inexplicable reason I’m put out, but then I see that his desk looks occupied, with his pen and notebook laid out. I feel slightly calmer at the sight, and I tell myself it’s simply because the office runs noticeably more smoothly when he’s present.

  He comes in as I’m translating a report on shipping supplies in and out of Venice. I’m tucking details into corners of my brain for later use; the ports have become vital to Nazi movements of weapons and troops since many of the railways in Northern Italy have been blown up by my fellow partisans. This is essential information for our fight, although we are mindful that translations of German messages intended to inform the Nazis’ fascist counterparts are not always the complete truth. On paper they are bedfellows – Hitler and Mussolini holding the same beliefs – but Italian fascists are still treated with some disdain by the Germans, considered unreliable.

  I don’t pay much attention to Cristian for a good half an hour, only seeing him out of the corner of my eye casting the odd glance in my direction. It never fails to make me nervous – I feel of all the people in this office he has the measure of me. Maybe I let my guard down too much at the reception? Perhaps he’s simply biding his time before he exposes me in some grand – and deadly – fashion? The fact that I can’t gauge him at all both irritates and drives me to discover more about him. What, aside from his love for Mussolini, motivates him in this chaos of a world?

  ‘Signorina Jilani, might I enquire when this report is likely to be ready?’ He ghosts up beside me – something of a habit he has – and I have to dampen my surprise.

  ‘Not too long, Signor, I’m on the last section,’ I say brightly. Clearly, there will be no chance to make a typewritten copy of this dispatch, and I’ll need to cram my brain to capacity before I can get to the toilet and scribble any memorised details. Cristian is not helping, as he’s hovering beside my desk – another habit he’s developing. I look up briefly.

  ‘Is there something else you need, Signor?’

  ‘No, I was just wondering if you enjoyed your reading last night? I always think you’re never alone with a book when you’re waiting for someone.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t waiting for anyone,’ I say casually. Easy enough since it’s true. Inside though, my mind is reeling – he’s clearly fishing, but for what? Does he suspect that I’m a Staffetta and spend half my life waiting for other message-bearers in cafés and bars?

  He looks at me, this time squarely through the lenses of his glasses, his eyes made slightly smaller by his short-sightedness but still large and enquiring. ‘And do you prefer that, Signorina – your own company?’

  ‘At times,’ I say. ‘Sometimes it’s much easier to be with a book – there’s no two-way exchange to have to worry about.’

  It’s too late – it’s out of my mouth before I have time to think and I check myself for opening up another part of me to him. I’m still in disguise: Stella the loyalist. Nothing of my own self should come through. But he only nods, as if he understands, and turns back towards his desk.

  ‘And did you enjoy your evening, Signor?’ I say as a parting comment. ‘With your company?’ Again, my mouth is moving faster than my brain, although the noise of the office masks our exchange.

  He stops, wheels back round. ‘It was a pleasant enough evening,’ he says without enthusiasm. ‘A work engagement – I was escorting the niece of an army officer.’ He smiles weakly, and I’m left wondering why Cristian De Luca feels the need to explain himself so fully to me, a mere typist. And, unbeknown to him, a traitor to his world. And more so, why I care at all.

  Jack has improved again by the time I see him on Giudecca later that week after work. I call in before I go to the newspaper office, and he’s out of bed, dressed. Even in the gloom of his glorified cell, I can make out that he has some colour in his cheeks. Without asking, he brews us some tea and we talk while he prepares the penultimate package. Part of me wants to suggest he split the last two into three, as I’ll have no real excuse to visit once the task is done. Do I need an excuse, I wonder, other than friendship?

  I leave with a neat package in my handbag, although I know the next one will be the size of a shopping bag – the equipment can’t be broken down into smaller pieces – and will demand the most nerve.

  Back in the newspaper office below the bar, I feel energised and finish the week’s articles quickly, just as Arlo and Tommaso arrive, reporting that they’ve been held up by Nazi patrols searching all young men on the streets of the main island. It’s fortunate all the material for the paper stays on Giudecca until its publication.

  They begin by sifting through my written copy and the other notices that need to be included in the week’s paper.

  ‘Hey, switch on Benito,’ Arlo says as they get to work, and I reach over to our well-worn radio set, brazenly named after Italy’s beloved leader. Instead of Radio Londra, though, we tune into some music and the atmosphere is almost party-like. I’ve noticed in recent weeks that Tommaso has grown out of his shell, bantering back and forth with Arlo and it’s good to hear. He tells us of the classroom talk at the Liceo and how the students are planning minor acts of sabotage, as if they are in training to be Resistance through and through for the rest of this seemingly endless war.

  ‘We’re arranging a leaflet drop around all the schools and some of the streets,’ he says, and his face glows with pride. Like him, some of the students have parents who are noted partisans and want to follow proudly in their footsteps.

  ‘Just be careful they can’t link you to it in any way,’ Arlo warns him, like an older brother. As he squints at the copy, I know he’s thinking of his own brothers courting danger in the war arena.

  Then, in the next minute, Tommaso produces the cartoon strip he’s been working on and they are both giggling like schoolboys again at the subversive sarcasm.

  I stay on a while to help fold and bind the sheets as the first pages of the weekly edition roll off the press like Mama’s pasta, fresh with news. It’s the best part of the week for me, to see something tangible in our fight in this war of bullies. The pages are not filled with award-winning journalism, I know, but I am a firm believer in the old cliché that the pen is mightier than the sword. It’s a shame that we have to engage the sword as well.

  As I wait to see if there are any loose ends to pick up with the paper, I tinker with my own story of Gaia and Raffiano, weeding out some of the passages that suddenly appear too ‘flowery’ and paring down the words to speak of emotion instead of bleeding it. I’m happier when it’s more succinct – no matter that it’s just for me. Doesn’t every writer create for themselves, first and foremost?

  To ensure that I catch the last vaporetto, I leave before the others, just as Matteo closes the bar and joins them in the basement to help string up the bundles. As with every Monday, his brother-in-law is waiting in the canal off the main expanse with his small, flat-bottomed motorboat. He is a fisherman by trade and knows the best routes to avoid the water patrols and the shallows of the lagoon; he and his cargo will skirt the deeper channels with the piles of papers, zigzagging towards the main island, where groups of distributors are ready to receive and begin handing out the lin
k to the outside world – under the counter of shops and cafés, sometimes in churches, left in recognised places in the campos.

  It’s on my own journey home each Monday evening that I feel the most … is it satisfaction? On the other days, when we’re simply preparing the pages, I do have a sense of achievement, but it’s when I feel the newsprint under my fingers that I’m truly aglow. It’s my own form of fulfilment, and one that I’m sure Popsa would have been proud of too. Certainly, it’s the nearest I feel to being a partisan soldier.

  Tonight, my journey back to my apartment is uneventful – I weave a route to sidestep all the checkpoints and I slump into bed exhausted. Three journeys done and still nine lives intact. Or is that a dangerous way to think? The radio parts I deliver safely the next morning; the patrols are focusing mainly on younger men and wave me on in my work suit. My heart still races as I walk through the barrier, and I try not to feel smug in my duplicity. But, inside, I’m smiling.

  It’s not until a few days later, when the paper has been out a full twenty-four hours, that I notice anything at all. I’m on Staffetta duty, outside a bar on Castello waiting to pass on a message to an unknown contact and sipping at a very poor excuse for coffee. My eyes are peeled for any suggestion of a fellow messenger, but my ears can’t help but tune into the table alongside, where two middle-aged women are gossiping over drinks.

  ‘Good luck to them, I say,’ the one in a striking blue hat says. ‘Everyone loves a bit of romance.’

  ‘It’s nice to indulge in a bit of fantasy, especially in these times,’ the one opposite in a bright green scarf agrees.