There was nothing Paolo could do but try and stay with the unruly movements of the car, turning the wheel sharply this way and that. A truck loomed towards them round another corner, sounding its warning horn as it swerved to miss them. Paolo shifted down a gear and kept pumping the brakes as the car’s engine made a rebellious rasping noise. They raced through a short tunnel and out the other side to where the road was straightening. Venetia gasped. Far ahead she saw another herder, this time with a flock of goats, crossing the road.
‘Paolo, we’re going to hit them!’
‘No we’re not.’ He gritted his teeth and pushed the car down through another gear. The engine screamed as the Ferrari careened over to the opposite side of the road. Although they had slowed down slightly because the gradient was levelling off now, Paolo hit his horn repeatedly as they sped towards the goat herder, still at an alarming rate.
Venetia could hear her own cry of terror. Oh my God, we’re going to die, she thought, her knuckles white on the dashboard, her neck glowing with perspiration.
Suddenly the goatherd looked up, and seeing them hurtling towards him and his herd, cried out something; he began beating the last of his flock with his stick, pushing them away on to the dusty verge on the other side, just before the swerving car screeched past them. Venetia didn’t bother to look behind her as the vehicle roared on, now edging scrubby fields.
‘Brace yourself, I’m going to try and stop the car now,’ Paolo shouted at Venetia, who closed her eyes for a moment, panic crushing her chest.
He began to pull the handbrake up slowly, straining his forearm for control and moving the steering wheel round with the other hand. The Ferrari span round one hundred and eighty degrees, carried on travelling in reverse and then span again to come to a halt sideways across the road.
There was silence in the car as both occupants breathed heavily. Venetia’s heart was hammering as Paolo pulled off his seatbelt and leaned over to her.
‘Venetia, are you alright?’
‘I need to get out.’
She stumbled out of the car on to solid ground, her head and stomach churning.
‘Cara, are you all right? Are you hurt?’ Paolo was beside her in an instant, his hands touching her head, her face, scrutinising her all over. His eyes were blazing with an almost primal, feral instinct, then he pulled her tightly towards him as if he never wanted to let her go.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.’ She pressed her face against his chest and breathed him in. ‘Oh my God, Paolo! I can’t believe that just happened.’ She looked up into his face that was strained with tension, but only with the concern that she was unharmed. Paolo seemed almost unaffected by the brilliant manoeuvring that had saved their lives, though. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked, gripping his arms tightly.
He nodded briskly, stroking her cheek. ‘Yes, carissima. I’m fine.’
Paolo’s eyes had grown calm again, the concern for her now mixed with a steely expression of concentration as he gently broke away. He walked around the car and crouched down by the front wheels, touching something under the chassis. After rubbing his wet fingertips, he sniffed at them.
‘Brake fluid’s gone.’ He straightened, looking grave.
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. It’s pretty unusual for a car like this. Almost impossible, I’d say.’
‘So how on earth could it have happened?’ The dragging sense of unease Venetia had been feeling all the way from the airport now began to take on a more alarming aspect.
Paolo saw the look on her face and stepped towards her, sweeping her into his arms.
‘I’m sorry, cara. You must have been terrified.’
‘Well, yes.’ She pulled away and looked into his face. ‘But it seemed like you knew exactly what to do. How on earth did you manage it?’
He paused, his gaze oblique, then said: ‘I took a specialist driving course after my car accident. You never know...’ He trailed off and drew her back, resting his chin on her forehead. ‘We’re fine, amore mio, and that’s the main thing. Come on. Luckily, there’s a petrol station just a kilometre up ahead on the outskirts of town, where I can find out who to call to have the car towed. We’ll take a taxi into town and come back for our luggage on the way. We can still make it into Castelsardo before dinner.’
Venetia gave a weak laugh. ‘Yes, at least we’ve made good time now!’
He grinned and turned her round in his arm. ‘You’re right, cara. And soon I’ll have you alone all evening in the comfort of our hotel room, and I’ll make all this disappear. You’ll forget it ever happened.’ He drew her against him, kissing her brow and they started walking.
The town seemed to have been completely overtaken by crowds when they reached Castelsardo in the taxi that had picked them up from the petrol station. This event was obviously a popular one, Venetia noted, as the taxi driver endeavoured to manoeuvre the car through the clusters of people flooding the place.
They finally arrived at Rocce Sarde, a small, secluded hotel at the top of the hill with a view dominating the Tyrrhenian Sea. The vast suite Paolo had booked for the night overlooked the harbour. It had far-reaching views of the coast, with miles of sandy beach stretching in front of pinewoods, and the hills of the macchia rose up in successive tiers of violet that became deeper as the light of the day declined. Sailing ships floated across the sea, which had a soft opaque light, bringing out to the full the colours of the little crafts, and the rocks and buildings on the mainland.
Venetia stood on the veranda looking down at the still yet smiling water, mesmerised by the romance of the view in the evening’s blue dusk. It was nearly enough to dispel the trauma of the near-accident with the car, which still lingered in her thoughts, but she gazed over the sea and leaned on the balcony, letting the evening fragrance of the sea calm her.
After he had taken delivery of their luggage, Paolo joined her there.
‘We’ll walk down to the entrance of the town to meet the procession,’ he suggested, putting his arm around her shoulders and squeezing her to him. ‘We’ll join it and come back to the church of Santa Maria, which is not far from here, just below the medieval Doria Castle. Come, we don’t want to miss it.’
It was night by the time Paolo and Venetia left the hotel and finally joined the masses on the pavements. All lights had been extinguished and the town of Castelsardo with its narrow streets, alleys and squares lay shrouded in inky darkness except for the silvery light of a brilliant full moon.
They took their position outside a bar at the corner of a twisting narrow street, in the dense crush of people herded in the roads waiting for the procession. Between houses, the crowd completely filled the canyon; every window, every balcony that promised a view was taken, and even the rooftops offering a point of vantage were turned into grandstands. Sardinians were clad in all their finery, the women somewhat austerely dressed for the most part in black, and coiffed with black or white lace mantillas, a tradition left behind by the Spanish, who had occupied Sardinia for four hundred years.
Groups of men and women were wandering in and out of caffetterias. Some were chatting and fanning themselves, pausing for gossip between their prayers, or mouthing them as they fingered their rosaries; others sat astride the wooden barriers separating the pavement from the road, their arms crossed, engaging in banter with the other spectators. Blending in with the crowd, Venetia was aware of the happy reverence and the good humour of these people and she felt in touch with it.
As they waited for the pilgrims, she turned to Paolo.
‘Being here makes me realise how Venetian I’ve become. Everything is so different in Sardinia. I’ve seen all kinds of religious ceremonies and cultural processions in Italy and other countries before, but tell me more about the Lunissanti.’
Paolo stood close to her, leaning against one of the barriers. ‘It all begins before dawn with a mass in the church of
Santa Maria, where the wooden cross of the black Jesus is kept, and where members of the Confraternita di Santa Croce – the Oratory of the Confraternity of the Holy Cross – meet. From there, a long procession unfolds. Two brotherhoods have the main roles. The Apostoli, who follow each other carrying the offerings, which are different objects relating to Jesus’s crucifixion: the chalice, the glove, the pillar, the chain, the scale, the crown of thorns, the cross, the ladder, the hammer and tongs, the spear and the sponge. The second group, the Cantori, is made up of three choirs of twelve members each, who sing the Miserere and other pre-Gregorian songs.’
‘Have you ever taken part in this procession?’
‘Yes, the first year I settled in Tuscany I came here for Easter. I had only just bought Miraggio, which was in the early stages of the restoration work. I wanted to get away from everything and go somewhere isolated to take stock of my life. Taking part in the procession of Lunissanti did me a lot of good.’
‘In what way?’ Venetia didn’t wish to pry too much but she was curious for more insight into Paolo’s accident and his amnesia.
He ran his hand through his hair. ‘It is a profoundly spiritual ritual. I found it cleansing somehow; I needed that. I also stayed for a couple of weeks after Easter with some monks in a monastery not far from here – I needed to find my new self.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, where did you get married and where did the accident take place?’
Venetia felt Paolo stiffen. She kicked herself for raising the matter. The thought of the accident, even though he can’t remember it, must still be painful for him.
Paolo didn’t answer immediately. His eyes skimmed over the crowds. ‘Oh, we married in Verbania, and the accident happened on the way to Pallanza, where we were going for our honeymoon,’ he said evasively, his mouth set in a line. ‘But I have no memory of all that. For me, today, that episode of my life never existed.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, how tactless of me. I’m sorry, Paolo.’
‘After the Holy Mass, the pilgrimage continues during the morning to the Basilica of the Pink Madonna of Gerico of Tergu,’ Paolo went on, still watching the passers-by and ignoring her apology. ‘There, the religious mysteries carried by the Apostoli pilgrims are offered to the Virgin Mary during a Pontifical Mass, accompanied by the crying song of the death of Christ. After the mystery plays and the mass, a long parade goes to the old town bastion wall, and returns to the church, where everybody enjoys lunch.’
Suddenly from afar burst the swelling melody of the Miserere, throbbing through the night, sung by a perfect choir and perfect soloists. An impressive silence blanketed the town while they listened to the exquisitely mournful sound. Soon the procession came marching up the narrow medieval street on its slow way home to the Church of Santa Maria, where it had all started at dawn.
Men that were part of the Confraternita di Santa Croce were dressed in white tunics and cloaks with thin, high-tapering hoods – a costume that could be nothing other than medieval in inspiration, reminding Venetia of the processions of the Semana Santa in Spain, where she had attended a more elaborate ritual in Seville when she had been working on a restoration job there a few years back. The cowled men and the pilgrims all held torches or candles, the golden glow of which threw a warm tone over the attendant multitude, swarming like bees to get a nearer view. As the procession passed by, the crowds lining the streets fell devoutly upon their knees.
Paolo and Venetia joined the worshippers on their way to the Church of Santa Maria, following the wooden cross and the human skull set on a tray, both carried by the apostles and accompanied by prayers and religious chanting of the three choruses.
There was an intensity about the worship which Venetia had not observed before, even in Spain. It was as if a great mystical shadow was being cast by the twenty-four hooded men and it stirred Venetia’s emotions profoundly. She could well understand how this sort of rite recalling the Passion of Jesus and involving legions of devotees would awaken a lagging faith and leave an indelible and unforgettable impression for all time – for who could ever erase the memory of one of these processions wending its glimmering way at night through the narrow medieval Sardinian streets into the immensity of the dark, waiting church?
From time to time, Venetia had glanced up towards Paolo and was surprised to discover that he was totally immersed in the ceremony, praying and chanting with the devotees as if he had lived all his life in Sardinia. It touched her. She could see that a man who had such a heavy cross to bear as the one Paolo was carrying could certainly find solace in the spiritual experience of the Lunissanti. She had sometimes wondered if Paolo had a faith, and now she found a potential new facet to his personality that intrigued her. Her heart flooded with compassion and love for him. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to make him happy, to compensate for all the countless years and memories he no longer had.
The procession moved on through the streets, the crowd humming and swaying in one sweeping wave of bodies, in time with the ritual. Candlelight flickered on faces engrossed in their chanting and cowled heads bent in quiet supplication as they walked. The lines of people standing at the side of the road knelt in a slow ripple of motion as they passed by. Out of the corner of her eye, Venetia saw a sudden movement in the crowd and looked up. Only one person had not knelt. The back of a young woman’s head was fleetingly visible, her long raven tresses spilling over her shoulders as she pushed into the throng away from the road, and disappeared. She looked so like Allegra at that moment that Venetia sucked in a breath. Impossible, there’s no way that girl could be in Sardinia. There was any number of black-haired young women in the crowd who looked just like Allegra. Venetia shuddered. Get a grip, she chided herself. She was becoming far too jumpy. Looking back at Paolo, who was still standing with his eyes closed, lost to the ritual, she took a deep breath.
After the procession returned to the church and Mass was celebrated, Paolo and Venetia left the local populace heading off to the main square of the town to celebrate the rite of thanks-giving for the Lunissanti. They made their way back through the dark cobbled streets to their hotel, after deciding to have dinner at La Grotta E Il Tempio.
‘It’s an amazing nightclub that opened last year with two different dance floors, one inside and the other outside,’ explained Paolo. ‘I haven’t been to it, but I’ve read about it and many of my friends have told me that it is an experience not to be missed: molto originale, different, fun.’
Venetia hooked her arm through Paolo’s. ‘I’d better dress accordingly in that case.’
Back at the hotel Venetia sifted through the clothes she had brought that were now neatly hanging in the cupboard. She had intended to wear her purple butterfly dress in Sardinia and the unwelcome image of the torn fabric flashed sharply in her mind. She swallowed slightly, not wanting these dark thoughts that kept following her to triumph when she was feeling so happy being with Paolo.
Paolo leaned against the edge of the small desk, watching Venetia, his dark brows gathering into a slight frown, as if he had read her thoughts.
‘I can just imagine how beautiful you would have looked in your purple dress.’
Venetia stood there with her back to him, not answering. She didn’t want to spoil the evening by discussing the incident again.
Paolo came towards her. ‘You seem upset, amore mio. I shouldn’t have mentioned it, I’m sorry. You’ll look beautiful in any outfit – and I prefer you anyway when you’re not wearing anything.’ He turned her around and drew Venetia to him, letting his hands roam over her curves. His eyes sparkled mischievously. ‘Ah, but that is only for me, and as we’re not dining alone, I wouldn’t like to share you with the rest of Sardinia,’ he told her, kissing the tip of her nose.
She shot him a gently scolding look. ‘I should hope not! Yes, let’s not think about disagreeable things tonight. We’re together, that’s all that matters, is
n’t that so?’ Her eyes shone as she smiled up at Paolo. She turned back to the cupboard. ‘I’ve brought other dresses with me, and the good thing is that you’ve hardly seen any of them.’
Venetia looked at him and saw his mouth twitching as if he were trying to stop himself from laughing. As she watched, the effort at control became too much for him and Paolo’s lips parted in an indulgent grin.
‘Yes, amore. I wondered what you had brought with you in that large suitcase the porter nearly dropped on his foot. Now I know!’
Venetia giggled. ‘Oh, don’t tease! So, what shall I wear? Mmm… what about this?’ She took out a sunglow-yellow strapless lace mini-dress, which she had bought on one of her trips to Paris. The warmth of the colour had struck her and, as it was on sale at half price, she had bought it on the spot, but had never worn it.
‘Meravigliosa!’ Paolo folded his arms and looked appreciative.
Venetia showered and applied some mascara to her lashes and a tinge of gloss to her cheekbones and lips before stepping into her dress and zipping it up.
With its subtly structured boned bodice and waist-clinching grosgrain belt, the yellow dress moulded itself to Venetia’s curves like a glove. For this occasion she wore her hair up in a sophisticated topknot. Every now and again she glanced at Paulo, who watched her silently, his eyes alight with fascination, longing and intensity. She clipped to her ears a pair of twenty-four-carat gold, wood-effect pendant earrings.
‘Venetia, you are utterly beguiling,’ he murmured. ‘You look like a ray of sunshine – the ray you brought into my life.’
‘I love nature-inspired jewellery.’ She smiled shyly at him and slipped into cut-out golden leather high-heeled slingbacks. ‘I’m ready,’ she said, grabbing her glamorous box clutch sprayed with glitter that she had won at a tombola raffle at one of her godmother’s charity parties a year ago in Venice.
The Echoes of Love Page 32