by Vicky Adin
“Wasn’t it lucky Jessica put two and two together about the key, Mum?”
“Yes, amazingly so. I won’t be able to stop thinking about them now.”
There was little more to be said until she could read them, so she sent a quick email to Jessica, to ask her to send them home where she would study them at leisure – and with any luck learn much more about Isabel’s life in New Zealand.
That evening, escorted by Mario, who was extremely disappointed, he said, to find the two beautiful signorinas already spoken for, the small party was ready for a birthday feast.
“Tonight, ladies, I have special treat for you.” Mario spoke in delightfully accented English and kissed Megan’s hand. “It was intended for Megan alone, but now she has company,” he shrugged nonchalantly, “– and such pretty company too – we all go. We visit my auntie. She cook for you.”
He and Trina exchanged some quick-fire conversation. Mario raised his hands in supplication once, before Trina finally nodded in agreement to something he’d said.
Turning to Megan and Sarah, she said, “Andiamo. Let’s go. Mario says his auntie is waiting.”
Bypassing his boat, Mario led them to a gondola while Megan pondered what had just gone on.
“This my cousin, Ricco; he take you. I meet you there.” Elegantly he assisted the women down the steps and onto the gondola. “Wrap up warm, ladies,” he advised, pointing to the rugs provided for the cooler April evening, and he waved them off as they disappeared along a narrow canal.
Unlike his talkative cousin, Ricco said nothing. He steadily poled the craft along the narrow canals turning into one then another and another. From this vantage point, their view of Venice was quite different. They glided past ochre, pink or cream coloured buildings, their rooftops pointing up to the narrow strip of dusky sky, and passed under a series of bridges. The lights from windows reflected on the dark, oily water that lapped the ancient stones resting on wooden poles driven deep into the depths of the marshy islands below. Megan thought there was something quite mysterious to the whole affair. Another turn and they entered a larger, wider canal. Suddenly Ricco burst into song and serenaded the women as their journey continued.
On cue, Trina reached under the seat and pulled out a basket containing glasses and a bottle of champagne. “Mario told me when Ricco started singing I was to pour the bubbles. Don’t ask any more. Just wait and see.” Now Trina was being secretive, but Megan didn’t care. She was happy to trust in whatever was going to happen.
“To you,” said Trina.
“Happy Birthday, Mum.” Sarah raised her glass.
Megan touched her glass with theirs, indescribably happy the girls were with her. She just wished Tony could also be here to enjoy it with her. When she was busy, Tony often faded from her daily thoughts, but occasions like this made his absence all the more noticeable.
They’d hardly finished their wine when Ricco glided towards a set of steps. The recessed door opened, and a short Italian woman stood profusely welcoming them at the entrance. Megan had no idea what they were saying, but Trina was instantly deep in conversation.
Ricco held the gondola steady as they stepped onto dry land and followed the woman, who was incongruously wearing a floral apron over her beautifully cut red dress.
The short passageway led to a heavy wooden door with ancient iron fittings, which opened into a warmly lit trattoria decorated with scenes of Venice. Piped music blared from speakers set high on the walls, and two Italian flags flew above a doorway that led to a narrow alleyway opposite.
The aroma of tomato, garlic, herbs and rich wine sauces assailed their senses. Candles burned in empty wine bottles on tables set with red checked cloths. Mario’s auntie showed them to the largest table, shouting and gesticulating towards the kitchen. A low hum of conversation filled the space and wrapped itself around the new arrivals, including them in its intimacy.
Mario materialised with bottles of Italian wine and glasses balanced between his fingers and poured copious quantities into the large balloons. “Megan, Sarah and Trina, may I present to you, mia zia, Rosa Bianchi. She is the best cook in all of Venice, in my opinion.” He kissed his fingers and threw the kiss into the air. “And here, that is all that matters.” He waved his arm around the room and bowed low with a wide grin.
Rosa gave him a friendly clip over the ear. He grinned even more.
Dish after dish appeared on the table while Trina quickly explained to Megan and Sarah what they were. As Mario had promised, each course was delicious, but Megan only tasted a small amount of each one, having been warned about a dessert.
“And now, Zia Rosa’s speciality, her homemade tiramisu,” announced Mario as Rosa set a plate before her. “A common Italian dessert found everywhere these days, I know. But ruined, I tell you, ruined. They are all pretend. Here, this is something you will never have tasted anywhere before. I promise you.”
Megan’s first bite, anxiously watched by Aunt Rosa and Mario, was exquisite. Her face said it all, as she finished every mouthful, allowing the creamy texture to melt away.
She couldn’t have wished for a better birthday.
* * * * *
“Mum! What were you thinking?” demanded Sarah later back at the hotel. Neither of the girls trusted Mario’s intentions, especially after learning Megan had paid for everything over the last three days. Sarah was sure her mother’s honour was at stake.
“You are too trusting, Mum. Didn’t you think he would want something in return for his attentions?”
“No, I don’t think so. You’ve got it all wrong, surely.” Megan was shocked. “Apart from kissing my hand, he’s not made any advances like that. He’s been very good to me.”
Trina thought her money was more at risk. “Give him time. I’m sorry to say there are a few of my countrymen who have a reputation for flattering foreign women who look lost. After a few days, they come up with some story about needing money. If they get enough the first time, they disappear. If not, they hang around until the right opportunity comes up. You’ve been lucky. Sounds like we arrived at just the right time.”
After the girls had gone to their rooms, Megan stayed up to write in her diary. Just as she was preparing for bed, a soft knock rattled the old-fashioned door latch. Thinking one of the girls had forgotten something she opened it. “Mario?”
Before she could say anything further, he ducked into her room and shut the door behind him. “La mia bella donna,” he whispered, as he took both her hands in his. “Your girls have got me all wrong. I don’t want your money. It is you I want. I have fallen in love with you.”
Stunned, Megan took a step backwards and nearly fell over as he tried to wrap his arms about her. She twisted away and managed to put the armchair between them as he advanced.
Dressed only in her nightgown Megan felt vulnerable, and her mind went into a spin. How would she extricate herself from this awful position? The girls had been right after all. How stupid could she be?
“Please, Megan,” he begged. “Please believe me.”
He made a grab for her and caught her wrist as she moved away. He pulled her close to his chest, trying to kiss her. The burning pressure of his hand on her back as he held her against his length stirred emotions she had nearly forgotten. Only Tony had held her like that. Mario’s other hand cupped her breast through her thin nightdress. Only Tony had ever touched her there.
Loathing coursed through her. She pushed hard against him and, finding strength she never knew she had, broke free of his hold. “Mario. Stop!” she ordered, panting to catch her breath. She held her hand out in front of her. “Stop right there. I need you to leave. Right now.”
“Cara signora, I don’t mean to upset you.” His hands spread fan-like before him, he shrugged as if to accede.
She stepped back to put some extra space between them and shook her head. “I appreciate all you’ve done. But I can’t believe you have fallen in love with me in three days.”
“We Italia
ns are hot-blooded. It can happen. Si?” He moved towards her again, and she slipped behind the small table. How could something this silly happen to her? It had gone beyond bizarre and now bordered on farcical.
Megan tried a different tack. “I don’t think you realise how old I am,” she began.
“All the more experienced, my dear,” he answered with a husky tone, raising one eyebrow.
Megan nearly laughed as an image of the wolf from Red Riding Hood entered her head, but this was no laughing matter. She had to get rid of him.
Spotting her mobile on the dresser by the door, she grabbed the ladder-back chair to hold in front of her and edged her way towards the door. What she thought she would do with the chair she had no idea, but it gave her a degree of comfort. Even as she measured the danger, she felt as if she could be playing a part in a movie scene.
“Mario, what has got into you? What do you want?”
“I want only you. Please say you’ll stay in Venezia and be with me? I show you how a man can love a woman. Not like this. We take time.” His voice was smooth and oily.
Now he was being ridiculous. Something in the back of her mind clicked. Something about Isabel and that art tutor.
“What about my girls? Do you think they would let me, even if I gave it a moment’s consideration?”
“Send them away. You are mama. What you say goes, doesn’t it?”
This time she really did snort. She put the chair down and grabbed her phone. “We’ll see, shall we? I’ll just call them.”
“No. Don’t do that.” He reached out to grasp her wrist again but having manoeuvred her way to the door, she quickly lifted the latch and stepped into the corridor where she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d be safe now. “Out!” she cried.
“Okay, I leave. I come back tomorrow and we talk. Yes?”
“No. I don’t think so, Mario. I think it best we part ways.”
“But, no. I already make bookings and paid for special surprises I plan for you. You can’t do this to me. You owe me.”
He wasn’t really a threat after all; he just wanted money.
“That is your problem. You’ll not get any more money from me. Please leave. Now. Before I call the police.”
He raised his hands in supplication and shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, okay. I go.” He grinned his cheeky grin. “It was worth a try. Non? No hard feelings?”
Megan watched until he disappeared from sight, then she relaxed. The whole scene had taken only a matter of minutes, and whilst she hadn’t really been scared, her legs shook. She retreated to her room and locked the door.
Leaning against the door and closing her eyes, she said a silent thank you to Tony for appearing just when she needed him. He was still her rock, her strength. Watching out for her as he had always done.
This little incident would not appear in her diary, nor would she tell the girls. She couldn’t bear to think what they might say, but she must remember to read Isabel’s diary again.
Chapter 23
Megan’s heart thumped loudly in her ears as Trina rehashed the events of the previous evening. “I hope you enjoyed your birthday dinner, Megan. I didn’t want to do anything to spoil it, but people like Mario let the whole country down.”
Megan assured her she did indeed have a very enjoyable dinner. “And it was particularly lovely having you two girls with me.”
Trina was clearly quite cross about the whole affair and unable to let it pass. “I’m absolutely certain he was going to hit on you last night, and I told him so. He of course denied it, but it was a classic plan. Romantic gondola ride – except with him, of course, not us. We were an unpleasant surprise – then a wonderful dinner to flatter you, and afterwards he would escort you back to your room. Need I say more?”
Megan hoped they couldn’t see her discomfort. If they knew their suspicions were warranted neither girl would let her out of their sight again, and they would want to do something about it, whereas she just wanted to forget the whole matter.
“So, we agreed,” said Trina. “Dinner as planned, and I wouldn’t tell the polizia about his little schemes. Needless to say, he won’t be bothering you any more.”
“I’m glad to hear it, girls. Now, what shall we do with our time?”
For the rest of the week, they talked, laughed, ate and shopped their way through Venice, but their time there was over and Florence waited. The three women boarded the train at Santa Lucia Station still laughing and acting like a bunch of teenagers going to their first ball. She felt blessed by her children and her newfound friends and thankful for her good fortune. Every person she met had taught her something new and given her strength – even Mario, if she was honest. Any lingering doubts about her life had disappeared.
Trina was especially excited about the impending visit to Florence. “I have so many things to show you and people I want you to meet, I don’t know where to start.”
Their adventures began at the station.
“Trina, mia cara. Over here. Quick. Hurry, hurry.” Zio Giacomo met them on the platform and rushed them through the crowds. “We need to hurry. I want to avoid the polizia. They will give me a ticket if they find the car where I left it.”
He and Trina talked nonstop until Trina found time to explain. “He’s taking us to a place he’s found. The padrona has offered rooms with full board. Zio Giacomo says you don’t want to stay in that modern hotel with fake Italian food. You need to experience true Italian hospitality, family style.”
There was no arguing with him. Squashed in his tiny Fiat with their luggage tied on the roof, they set off. After a few hair-raising spurts between traffic and tyre-squealing twists and turns into the hill above Florence, he pulled up at a typical Mediterranean house with painted stucco walls, terracotta roof tiles and small windows. At the door a wizened old lady, whose stature belied her vitality, stood in welcome. Their hostess gave Giacomo orders in rapid Italian, and with much pointing the three women were soon settled into their rooms.
Megan was grateful for Giacomo’s consideration. Her room was charmingly decorated in well-worn furniture that could have graced any antique store and a pleasant change from some of the modern, characterless hotels she could name. Lace curtains billowed at the window, and a handmade quilt adorned the foot of the wrought-iron bed. A beautifully painted ewer and bowl, usable as well as decorative, sat on the washstand to complement the shared bathroom.
Frenzied tooting from a horn attracted Megan’s attention. She went to the window to see what the noise was about and glimpsed Trina leaning out of the adjacent one. Below them, Giacomo was waving and shouting. “Arrivederci. I go now. A dopo. See you later.”
With a final wave, he buzzed off down the road on his Vespa, leaving the car with Trina.
* * * * *
Dinner that evening was a feast. Quite different to the regional delicacies Rosa served in Venice and nothing like any of the food Isabel had detailed in her journal. Many of Trina’s family had turned up to meet them. How they fitted in the tiny enclosed courtyard and around the table was a mystery to Megan – and not all of them were there, according to Trina, who’d introduced her to so many people she’d lost count.
“Zio Giacomo’s head of the family and everyone’s favourite,” flattered Trina unashamedly, shouting above the chatter. She put her hand on her uncle’s shoulder and stood on tiptoes to kiss his bristled cheek affectionately. Earlier that day, Trina had briefly explained the intricacies of her family, complete with its mini feuds. Even so, Megan felt bewildered by talk of the sister who wouldn’t talk to the brother but whose nephews were quite at home with their cousins. Jealousies ran riot and tempers flared, but family was family, and in the end much would be forgiven.
“He’s the leather man I told you about. He runs the shoe and handbag factory and Zia Teresa runs the store.” Trina put her arm around the older woman. “She was my guardian angel when Mama was sick. I couldn’t have done it without her.”
“Primo,” anno
unced Carmela, as she broke through the crowd, knowing the delicious aroma of her creamy risotto would have mouths watering.
Giacomo held Megan’s chair out as they took their seats. Sarah ended up at the other end of the table with a group of young ones. Above the hum of conversation, plates clattered back and forth and were replaced as more courses arrived. Megan could smell the chicken cacciatore in its creamy sauce and the rich beef ragù with tomatoes, onions, herbs and garlic, which had spent all afternoon baking in the oven. A stream of vegetables and the freshest of salads to cleanse the palate were crammed onto the table wherever a space appeared.
The wine flowed, music played and the chatter grew louder. People changed places to talk to other people. Wrapped in the warmth of a family who were pleased to see her, Megan felt welcome. Food was the Italian way to please, to be inclusive, and mealtimes were a chance to heal any wrongdoings. She hoped her pain would heal, and soon, but this time it wasn’t Tony she was thinking about, it was Jason.
As she watched Trina’s face, alive, happy and exuberant, Megan couldn’t help feel resentful. Tony and I should have been there, she almost screamed. Why were we so shunned? Her son had talked about how he too had been welcomed into this family and had found it new and exciting. It still hurt her terribly to think he would rebuff his own family and chose to be here amongst these people; but she mustn’t blame them for his behaviour.
To take her mind off Jason, she tried comparing her experience with that of her great-grandmother. Isabel had joined an English community living in a foreign land, who kept to themselves. The locals were useful as servants and guides, but the English preferred their own traditions and behaviours. Dressing and eating to English mores, they missed the heart and soul of Italy.
“You look sad, mia cara,” said Giacomo, making her jump as he appeared by her shoulder. He came and sat in the empty chair beside her. “You watch our Caterina, I see. It is so good she is happy again. She was not, for such a long time. My sister, Francesca, when she came back from America with her little one over there,” he nodded in Trina’s direction, “she was changed.”